Three and a Half Inch Floppy
by Percentile
Summary: "People forget about them, about floppy disks. They forget about all the stuff they saved on them. I just like… I just like knowing all that shit won't all be forgotten. That things aren't ever forgotten."
1. They Were Purely Accidental

Kyle had found these ones sifting through a box of junk at Father Maxi's yard sale. Kenny had been beside him, fervently digging through a box of old clothes, desperate to find himself an old frock and collar. He knew the shit he could get up to with a frock and collar. He knew how many stupid things he could do. He knew how many people he could upset. How many people he could offend. How many unsuspecting women he could flash.

Kyle had been humouring him, playing along with the joke, faking smiles and faking laughs. But he didn't really care. Kenny would always find a way of getting himself into trouble. He didn't need to masquerade as a priest to kick up a riot. He certainly didn't need a frock and collar to go flashing in the park. He'd proved that much already.

Nevertheless, Kyle had had nothing better to do that day. He'd already finished his homework. He was fucking sick of SAT prep. He'd refused point blank to drive Ike to his friend's house. He'd had nothing better to do then allow himself to be swept away by Kenny's quick, mischievous grinning, his rudimentary planning and stupid intentions. He'd allowed himself to be dragged off his computer, dragged out of his house, dragged down the street, hastily yanked across the block to Father Maxi's house. To the mass of dust and boxes in Father Maxi's front yard. Kenny had immediately dived on the piles of old clothes, tearing through them as though his life depended on it. Kyle had just sighed, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand as Kenny got to work.

He'd been kneeling on the grass, thinking of calculus equations, petulantly pushing aside some sad, chintzy little ornaments, a flowery cat with a chipped ear, several dusty, cracked Hummel figurines, wading through the suspiciously unlabelled DVD's, the tangles of cords and cables that were connected to nothing, and wham, he'd found them. All stacked up in a neat little Perspex storage case. All unlabelled. All uncracked. All perfect. Seven floppy disks.

He blinked and picked them up. It was rare he found so many. Usually he only ever came across one, maybe two, left loose and forgotten in a corner somewhere. Scraping around the bottom of a draw, rattling around in the bottom of an old briefcase. But a nice little bunch like this, kept whole and safe in a neat little box, well, that really was a treat. Of course, Kyle knew they could be empty. They could all be blanks. Usually when Kyle found a bunch of them, a bunch like this, a bunch of neat, perfect, unlabelled ones, they turned out to be blanks. Brand new and unsullied. The ones that had become obsolete, useless before their first use. But it was always a chance he was willing to take. He'd buy a million blanks for the chance of a live one.

Glancing around, he'd scooped up a couple of the unlabelled DVD's, placed the floppy disks on top of them, and wandered over to where Father Maxi was resting, lounging back in an old, dusty lawn chair. They'd made polite, awkward conversation, Kyle had forked over a couple of dollars, and Father Maxi had given such a look, Kyle was certain the unlabelled DVD's were pornos. He was certain he'd just brought porn from a priest. Not that he cared. He didn't really want the DVD's, maybe they were re-writable, maybe he could use them to record shit, but they probably weren't. They were probably useless. They were probably Kenny's next Birthday present.

Still, he'd learnt long ago people ask questions when you just try to buy just the floppy disks. They get all curious and interested. They ask too many invasive and boring questions. You have to cut them with something to stop it looking too suspicious. Sometimes you just have to buy the fucking porn.

Kenny joined him a minute later, clutching an armful of suspiciously black, suspiciously bulky clothes. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat, fumbling around in his back pocket. He too forked over a handful of dollars, he smiled sweetly at the priest, made some light conversation, then he clutched Kyle's arm, and he pulled him out the yard.

Kenny had wanted to go to the park immediately, but Kyle had refused. Sheer boredom might push him into dancing along to Kenny's stupid ideas, but he wouldn't follow him when he had something better to do. He wouldn't follow _anyone_ when there were floppies to be read. That was something Kenny had learnt years ago.

It was a quick goodbye, a quick parting, a quick walk home. He'd thrown the pornos on his bed, he'd deal with them later. He didn't care about them. They were purely accidental. He discarded then unlabelled DVD boxes, toed on his computer's power switch, and plugged in his external disk drive. He'd sat down, he'd tried to ignore the incredibly lame fact that his heartbeat had just increased, that his breathing had quickened, he tried to pretend he wasn't so painfully sad he got genuinely excited about old floppy disk. He failed, somewhat spectacularly. He gave up trying to delude himself and inwardly accepted he was a loser. And doing what losers do, he carefully clicked open the Perspex case, he carefully exposed the floppies. Sliding one disk out, he pressed it against the slot, and slid it into the reader.

Kyle frowned; he was disappointed. It was always such a let-down. They were nudes, nudes of some woman he didn't know. He hated it when they had nudes on them. Nudes were so tedious. Nudes were boring. They might have been fun the first time, maybe even the second. But by now, nudes did nothing for him. Blank disks and nudes were the bane of his floppy disk loving life. Wrinkling his nose, he flicked through the pictures, frowning at the woman, judging her, her ugly hair and stupid smile, before clicking the disk out. He slid in another, and rolled his eyes. For a man in cloth, Father Maxi really did have a _fuckload_ of porn.

_Father Maxi: Female Nudes_. Kyle labelled them all neatly. One after the other. He'd file them away later, slot them into place in the "Nudes: Female" box. File them away with the other disks he didn't give a shit about.

Sighing, he picked up the last one and slid it in. Then he blinked, and frowned. Just like the proceeding floppies, a line of photos had popped up. A line of dirty photos. A line of Clyde Donovan's mother, naked on the screen. She was posing with all manner of bizarre objects, twisted herself into all manner of painful looking poses. Kyle supposed she'd been attempting sexy, but sexy was one of the few things these photos weren't. He couldn't imagine a Donovan ever actually managing to pull off sexy. Now he didn't have to imagine a Donovan fail at it.

He swallowed. There was something tragically hilarious about these photos. In one, Mrs. Donovan was wrapped up in a rug, just her toes and head popping out. Like a mafia corpse or something. In another, she was sprawled on the bed, arms and legs awkwardly thrust either side of her, hanging limp like a broken doll. She clutching a handful of the animal fur bedspread, arching her back, a look of pain scrawled across her face. In one of them, the one Kyle subconsciously decided was his favourite, she was straddling a kitchen chair, doing something obscene with what looked like one of Clyde's old toy Apatosaurus.

Kyle cleared his throat nervously. These pictures must be old, really, really old. Mrs. Donovan had been dead for years now. He still remembered the fuss that had followed her unsavoury death, the TSA and the sue-ance. There was something wholly uncomfortable about seeing her like this, no matter how funny the photos might be. He felt intrusive, dirty. And he hardly ever felt dirty, not anymore. After knowing Kenny for sixteen fucking years, after experiencing his porn collection, Kyle had grown immune to the dirty feeling.

Still, _this_ made him feel dirty. He was eavesdropping on the scandalous little secrets of the long, long dead. Pulling a face, Kyle pressed the button on the front of the floppy drive, pulling out the disk. He wasn't sure what to do with it. He had a feeling he should give it to Clyde, but he knew that wasn't a good idea. Once Clyde saw what was on it, he would probably either cry, or track Kyle down punch him in the crotch. His dad would probably do the same. No, his dad would probably just cry. If they could read it, that is. Not many people nowadays could actually read floppy disks, not unless they were Kenny with a computer as old as sin, or they were Kyle with his specialist external equipment. No, most people couldn't read them anymore. Not unless they really, _really_ wanted too.

If he gave it to Clyde there was a very good chance he'd never actually see what was on it. He'd just throw in a corner somewhere, and in a couple of years' time, chances were it'd end up back in this room, back in Kyle's external floppy disk drive. Back making Kyle feel oh-so dirty, all over again.

No, he didn't want to give it back to Clyde. He didn't want to upset him. He didn't want to give away the floppy either. He was oddly protective of his floppy disks. Biting his lip, he pulled out a sheet of white labels. He didn't want to label it what it was. It just seemed way too brutish to write Clyde Donovan's mothers name on this, to label her shame and embarrassment. He was tempted to label it _Female Nudes: Anonymous_, and just add it to the box, but he knew Kenny stole the nude ones. Kyle might not give a shit about them, but Kenny did. Kenny stole them, uploaded them to his computer, uploaded them into the internet, and tried to sneak them back. He didn't think Kyle knew, but Kyle had known for years. He'd realised his filing system had been messed with the day after it had happened. He'd stumbled across Kenny's secret webpage a couple of weeks later.

He didn't want Kenny uploading photos of Clyde Donovan's dead mother, hell, he didn't even want Kenny _seeing_ photos of Clyde Donovan's dead mother. He didn't want anyone to see them. He was actually beginning to wish he hadn't seen them. The dirty little secret of a dirty old priest and a long dead housewife. His friend's mother. Well, not his friend, really. They weren't friends. Clyde was just a kid he knew. A kid he'd used to play make-believe with. They weren't anything more than that.

Some things were better left dead and buried. That was a lesson he's learnt long ago.

Exhaling, he leant back, shutting his eyes. He decided to label the disk _Father Maxi: Dead_. He'd add it to the box of dead disks, hide it amongst the disks that no longer worked, the disks with the corrupted files, the shattered components and broken, cracked casing. The empty shells with only ghosts of data on them. No one looked in that box, no one ever went through it. They were the disks that lay in peace, that lay in pieces. He'd bury her all over again, bury the dead back with her kind.

He'd let her rest in peace.

* * *

A/N – Holahola, and I'm back. And it's going to be a Style story again. Stand alone, not connected to the others. Not sure how this will go (because fuck, floppy disks and different settings) or how often I can update (yes it will be multichaptered, this isn't just it). I have a job at the minute, and it's pretty hard, time consuming work. Still, I was itching to get keyboarding again, so hey ho candyfloss. Style.


	2. Amateur Attempts at Playboy Photography

"You missed a shitton of fun at the park yesterday."

Kyle groaned, opening his eyes. He'd been trying to sleep, to catch five minutes of shuteye on his calculus book before everyone else arrived, before it goy stupid and noisy and homeroom began. But Kenny had other ideas. Kenny wanted to be stupid and noisy. Kyle just blinked. He really liked sleeping. He really didn't like being woken up.

"Oh, I'm _sure _I did."

"What? You _really _did!"

Kyle sighed, stretching forward on his desk. He still had his coat on. The layers of fabric made his movements stiff, but it was way too cold to take it off. Either the heaters must be broken again, or it was too soon for them to have clicked on. Or a mixture of both. He knew the timers had been playing up for a while. He'd heard the janitors talk about it last week. "I've seen your wang enough times already Kenny. It's just boring now."

"Awwh, don't be such a misery. It was hilarious. That cassock makes it so easy, you know. All you have to do is grab the bottom and lift. All the women were crying and screaming and running. All the men were getting upset and angry. Hell, even Cartman found it funny."

"That's because Cartman has the maturity of a ten-year-old." Kyle sighed, resting his chin on his book, blinking his hair out of his eyes. "I bet he still watches Terrance and Phillip and everything."

"_I _still watch Terrance and Phillip."

"You also like to dress up as a priest and flash innocent families in the park. You also like to crank-call fast food places. You're hardly the benchmark of maturity."

"Oh, well I'm sorry I don't act pretentious over politics and read The Economist like _you _do. We're not all you Kyle, we don't all whack one out over the Financial Times and fanboy over Presidential Debates. Some of us are actually _enjoying_ our youth."

"I'm enjoying my youth too. I just don't feel the need to show strangers my wang as proof."

Across the room, Clyde Donovan laughed, hurling a football at the door. Stan Marsh had just walked in. He caught it easily, but that was nothing new. He always caught it easily. He hurled it back, joining in with the game. The stupid, loud, rowdy game. Kyle just rolled his eyes, burying his face back in the crook of his elbow. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be at home, reading, or browsing the internet, or even just masturbating casually to his internal fantasies. Hell, he'd even rather be in calculus. He just didn't want to be here, surrounded by idiots who hurled a football around a classroom and acted like it was the best thing since sliced bread. He didn't want to be around idiots who hurled a football around a field and acted like _they _were the best thing since sliced bread. He didn't want to be around idiots who just couldn't _shut up and sit down_. All the shrieking and laughing and Wendy Testaburger's nasally voice, it was giving him a headache.

Kenny bit his lip. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, I've got a headache. And I'm _really fucking tired_. The bus always arrives so _fucking _early, and it always takes fucking _ages_."

"I already told you I'd drive you."

Kyle wrinkled his nose. The bus might take a while, it might be cramped and noisy, and it might always feel vaguely sticky, for some hideous, most likely soft-drink related reason, but at least it was structurally sound. That was far more then could be said about Kenny's truck. Kenny's Birthday present from his father. Kenny's big, ugly, orange pride and joy. His big, ugly, orange death-trap eyesore. With its broken engine, clucky exhaust system, broken air-cons, broken heaters. With its huge gaping hole in the dashboard that had once held a radio, long since torn out and stolen by some thug, probably Kenny's brother. Maybe Kenny's father. Kenny's truck, with its passenger side door held on, and glued shut, by half a roll of peeling duct-tape. Smiling slightly, Kyle titled his head towards the windows. Kenny's truck was in such a sorry state of disrepair, even the check engine light was broken.

It'd worn itself out long, long ago.

"I value my life too much."

"Oh, come on. My truck's not _that_ bad."

"Oh really? How many parts fell of it on the way to school this morning?"

"_None_, I'll have you know. _And _I managed to glue the wing mirror back on!" Kyle just snorted. Kenny frowned. "Well, I'm sorry my meagre transportation isn't up to your ritzy standards Princess Jewface! I'm sure you have _so much_ more fun on the bus!"

"_Princess Jewface?_ Seriously? Did Cartman write that one for you, or did you come up with it all on your own?"

"Fuck, gimme a break. It's too early. I'll come up with a better one for you at lunch."

"I'll await it with bated breath."

Kenny smiled, tilting his chair back on two legs and crossing his arms. "Anything worthwhile on the good Father's floppies?"

"Just nudes. More nudes. Always fucking nudes." Kyle furrowed his eyebrows. "Although I do think Father Maxi might have been up to no good in the long ago days of yonder. He had an awful lot of made-at-home porn. I'll bet he was sullying his flock or something creepy."

"Bitches or dicks?"

"Women."

Kenny quirked an eyebrow. "Well that's surprising. I was expecting noncey little shots of innocent young choirboys. Father Maxi's really letting the Catholic Church down. He'll be in trouble with them, if he's not careful."

"I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to sell their incriminating paedo-porn at a garage sale."

"You live in South Park. You once had to throw yourself of a roof so people would believe you were psychic. I think we've all seen just how stupid the people here can be." Cracking his neck, Kenny leant back further, pushing his chair legs to their limits. Very nearly overbalancing. "Still, at least you got to see naked women. The whole endeavour wasn't in vain after all."

"Eh."

"Oh, _come on_. There must have been something good. _Naked women_, Kyle. Act like a human being for once!"

Kyle hesitated. He couldn't get the photos of Donovan's mother out of his head. Her embarrassingly unsexy poses, her awkward body. Her long dead eyes. They would haunt him to his grave. Besides, it didn't really matter what he told Kenny. He didn't need to describe the armature shots of ugly, aging women. Now he knew they were nudes, it was only a matter of time before Kenny snuck them out of Kyle's room and uploaded them onto his webpage.

"They were just some shots of boring, thirty-something housewives. It was just yet more amateur attempts at playboy photography. Nothing to get excited about. If you've seen it once, you've seen them all. After all the floppies, after all the times I've had to see _your _floppy, nakedness just isn't _interesting_ anymore."

"You're like, the only teenage boy in history who turns his nose up at naked slutty whores, but creams himself when he finds old, outdated financial reports and business documents."

"Business documents are _interesting_. It's like, a time capsule of a company. Of somebodies life. Their job, what they had to do that day. All the shit they had to write. Nakedness, nakedness is just somebody with their clothes off." Kyle sighed, turning his face away. Wendy Testaburger was sitting on one of the desks, on Stan's desk, probably, one bare leg crossed over the other. Her already too short skirt riding up ever higher. If Kyle squinted hard enough, he was relatively certain he'd be able to see her underwear. He'd tucked his jeans into his boots and put on a woollen sweater under his coat he'd been so cold this morning, yet most of the girls still saw fit to bare their legs and their arms and their God knows what else. Well, most of the cheerleaders, anyway. The normal girls were just, well, normal. Kyle just blinked, and sat up straight. He wasn't going to get any sleep now. The bell was ringing. Homeroom should have started by now. Their teacher was late. Again. She was always late. "There's too much nakedness nowadays. It's _everywhere_. It's like people have forgotten how to keep their clothes _on_."

"God, you sound just like your _mother_."

"_I hate you_."

Cocking his head back, Kenny smiled. "No you don't. You love me. I'm your _BFF_. I'm your _BFF for life_."

"Now, now you're just trying to _depress_ me."

"You're such a _bitch_."

Kyle smiled wryly. "Love you too, bestie."

Kenny just smiled and elbowed him in the ribs. Kyle grinned and glanced up. Across the room, Stan Marsh was watching him. Kyle just frowned, lowering his eyebrows. Stan blinked and quickly looked away. Some things were better left dead and forgotten.

"Hey dude, do you want to go to the arcade tonight?"

"Hm?"

"The arcade Kyle, do you want to go?"

"Maybe. I have SAT prep to do. I didn't get much done yesterday."

"Boring."

"We can probably meet up after I'm done though."

Kenny just pulled a face. "I might just call on Cartman and go hang about the park again."

"Well, whatever floats your boat. You should probably start mixing it up though. It's only a matter of time before they arrest you."

"They'll have to catch me first."

"I'm betting you can't run all that fast in a cassock, moron."


	3. The Economy Was Fucking Important

Kyle wasn't cool. But then, he'd never pretended he was. Long ago, when he was younger and stupider and very, very naïve, he'd tried to be cool. He'd tried to follow the fads and say the right things and wear the right clothes, he'd tried to buy the right stuff and go to the right places, but for some reason he always seemed to get it wrong. He walked a step out of synch with it all. Always too far behind, always arriving too late. It always seemed stupid to him. He just couldn't do it. And after a while, he just didn't _want _to do it.

Nevertheless, long ago, when he was younger and stupider, when he kept on getting caught up in all this towns shit, when _they'd_ still talked, all that shit hadn't mattered. He didn't need to be in synch, he didn't need to arrive on time. He didn't need talk the talk or walk the walk. He didn't need to act cool or look cool or talk cool to be cool. He'd spent a good half of his life just being cool by association, being popular because of who he knew. Because of who is Super Best Friend had been.

Stan had been cool enough for the both of them. He'd always found it effortless. He wasn't Kyle. Saying, owning, buying, wearing the right thing; Stan knew how to do it all. Stan pretty much _was _it all. He moonwalked the fads with painful ease, he talked the talk and walked the walk. He was the letterman jackets and the scandalous rumours. He was the all-star quarterback. He had the cheerleader girlfriend and the classic Mustang and the average grades. He went to the parties and downed the drinks. He spent his life surrounded by a gang of burly moronic footballers. He was the walking, talking varsity stereotype. He was the jock. And it made Kyle sick.

Kyle had been cool because Stan had been cool. Stan was still cool, Stan was the fucking Homecoming King. And Kyle, Kyle just wasn't. Kyle was the guy who stayed at home alone on homecoming night. Kyle was the guy who argued politics with his little brother. He was the guy who liked to play bad videogames on a vintage console. Kyle was the guy who was a little too into computers, a little _too_ into the wires and the network and the internet. Way too into his stupid floppy disk collection. Kyle was the guy who was best friends with the poorest kid in school. Kyle was the guy who ate lunch at the same table as Eric-fucking-Cartman. Kyle was the guy with the perfect grades and the impressive extracurricular activities, and the bad fashion sense. He was the guy who didn't care, not anymore. He was the guy who walked to the beat of his own drum, no matter how uncool that made him.

And he was alright with that, with the way things had turned out. He'd been alright with it for a very long time.

Kyle bit the inside of his cheek, leaning back in his chair. If he tilted his head back and shut his eyes, if he blocked out the droning voice and the murmured whispers, he could pretend he was somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away from this classroom, this school. Far, far away from South Park. New York, maybe. Although New York was too close to New Jersey. That wouldn't be pretty. Chicago would be better. Chicago would be nice. The University of Chicago. Hell, right now, he'd be happy with just Boulder. He'd be happy to just be away from here. He smiled to himself. He'd stopped listening to the teacher a long time ago. He didn't care about the economy. Well, he did, he cared quite a bit about the economy. He cared about the economy way more then a sixteen year old boy should care about the economy. The economy was fucking important. He'd quite like to not be in a recession anymore. He'd quite like there to be more jobs and less worry. He'd quite like everything to be okay. But that wasn't the way things were going. Times were dark and the future is bleak.

No, Kyle did care about the economy. He just didn't care about economy _lessons_. Everything Mr. Harris was saying, he already knew. He'd already read about it, or heard about it. He'd already had painfully long discussions with Ike about it. He'd probably already had an argument about it. He'd probably already _won _an argument about it. But then, he rarely had an argument he didn't win. That was the one part of his mother he'd been proud to inherit.

Either way, he already _knew_. He always already knew. It seemed no matter what they said, no matter what they told him, he already knew. And it bored him. But then he was usually bored. Bored and tired. His overriding memory of high school wouldn't be of friends or sex or drinking or parties, it wouldn't be of being cool or doing cool things. He wouldn't remember fun or happiness. He would remember the cold, dank days. The feeling of being painfully bored and pathetically tired.

He'd remember wanting to grow up and run away. He'd remember wanting it all to be over already.

Next to him Butters was humming to himself, diligently jotting down notes. Not that he needed any notes, Butters knew all this shit too. He knew it almost as well as Kyle did. He read the newspapers and watched the news. He wasn't stupid. Far from it sometimes, especially when it came to maths. He just wrote them to appease the teacher. He did it because if anyone ever missed a class, they were always told to go ask Butters for the notes. And Butters always gave them. He always had them to hand. Happily and thanklessly. Without a quibble or a backbone. Like he was the official secretary for the junior class or something.

Sighing, Kyle ran his hands though his hair, still leaning back in his chair. He sort of wished he'd chosen something different, a different subject. If he'd asked, he would probably have been allowed to take a senior elective. Maybe he could have taken astronomy. But he was already taking his AP classes, and he'd wanted something easier. A filler subject to slot between the all the shit that actually mattered. Maybe he should have just taken home economics with Kenny. At least then he'd get to fanny about cooking stuff. He wouldn't be stuck with a bunch of blockheads, watching Butters carefully jot down the teachers inaccurate ramblings. He wouldn't be stuck listening to Clyde's irritating whispering, his one-sided conversation with Marsh. He wouldn't be stuck listening to Craig's snarking, or Token's snickering. It'd just be him and Kenny and a shitton of the girls.

Which would probably be just as irritating, Kyle was well aware of that fact. But at least they'd get to cook. They'd get to make something more edible then fiscal charts.

"Alright class." Mr. Harris clapped his hands. Kyle blinked and sat forwards. "I'm going to assign you a partner. You have three weeks to write a report on this recession."

Kyle groaned. He hated being assigned a partner. He hated not being able to just buddy up with Butters and get it done. He hated how no matter who he was partnered up with, he always ended up doing all the work himself. Everyone else was just moronic. They just got it wrong.

Mr. Harris cleared his throat, before steadily going through the class list, teaming people up. Kyle just shut his eyes, burying his face into the crook of his arm. He ticked people off as they went, keeping track of the class. Butters got Wendy. He heard her groan from across the room. Bebe got Cartman. You could have heard her muttered curses from the end of the corridor.

"Broflovski and..." Kyle frowned into his elbow. If Butters was gone, he was sort of hoping for Token. Token was a bit of an ass, but he wasn't stupid. They'd be able to bang the report out one Saturday and that would be the end of it. They wouldn't have to talk to each other again.

"Tucker."

Kyle smiled, shutting his eyes. He didn't get what he'd wanted, but it was okay. It could have been worse.

He could have been given one of the blockhead football jocks.


	4. Prissy Pissy Pout

"Well, _you_ look happy."

Kyle frowned, tilting his head away. Kenny just rolled his eyes, sitting down opposite him, dropping his meagre lunch on the table. Kyle was in a mood. Again. Kyle was usually in some kind of mood. Kenny was used to Kyle being moody. Kenny was used to Kyle's attempted PMS. Today he was bored and tired. He was cold. He was unamused. He didn't want to have to write an economics report. He was sick of writing reports for other people. He was sick of doing all the work. He was sick of studying, sick of homework. He was sick of fucking SAT prep, he was sick of fucking football jocks. He was sick of morons, sick of Cartman. He was sick of this school. He was just sick of it all. It was always something with him. There was always something for him to whine about. He'd known Kyle nearly all his life. They all had really. They were used to it by now.

At the far end of the table, the physical furthest point away from Kyle he could sit, Cartman pulled a face. "Detective Sandy Vagina always looks like that Kenny. That prissy-pissy-pout is pretty much his go-to expression. But then, all that sand, all that _sand_, she really must be so _uncomfortable_…"

"Holy fuck Cartman, it's been _eight fucking_ _years_! Let that shit go already. It's _not_ fucking funny."

"Well I'm going to have to disagree with you there Sandy. I think it's very fucking funny."

"Well, _you're_ a moron."

"Takes one to know one."

"Oh, just _shut up_. What are you, _eight_?!"

"Well you see, Detective Sandy Vag-"

Kyle pulled a face, slamming his hands down on the table. His neglected plastic crockery jumped in merge appreciation. "I swear to _God_ if you call me that one more time I'm going to beat the living _crap_ out of you Cartman!"

"Easy there _fluffy_. We don't want the vet to have to _neuter_ you now."

"Fluffy?" Kenny snorted through a mouthful of bread sandwich, quirking an eyebrow as he propped one elbow up on the table. "Actually fluffy sort of works. It's better than Detective Sandy McVag, at any rate. You gotta keep things fresh Cartman. All your material is getting _old_."

Kyle glared across the table. "Don't you _fucking _encourage him dickface!"

Kenny just shrugged. "But I like fluffy." He wiggled his fingers across the table. He wondered how far he could go before Kyle snapped and kicked him. "It suits you. It suits you more then _Princess Jewface_, and that's saying something."

Glowering, Kyle stared across the table, crossing his arms belligerently across his chest. "_Fluffy_ does _not_ suit me."

"It sort of does."

"It makes me sound like a fucking _Pomeranian_."

From the other end of the table, Cartman sighed loudly. "But that's part of the _charm_, you see. It makes you sound like a fluffy little bitch because you _are _a fluffy little bitch."

"I'm fucking _warning _you Cartman, if-"

"Hey Kyle-" From somewhere over Kyle's left shoulder, Craig cleared his throat. Smirking, Kenny cut him off.

"We're calling him _fluffy _now."

"Oh, just _shut up_!"

Craig raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. He'd walked up behind Kyle, staring at Kenny over the top of Kyle's head. "_Fluffy_?"

"You know, because of the…" Kenny gestured round his head. Kyle just glared at him. He was going to fake being sick tomorrow. He was going to fake flu or something. He'd rather face a week of his mother's painfully frantic coddling then face another day of this. He just wanted to go home to his PC and floppy disks. He'd rather be surrounded by amature retro nudes and naked Mrs. Donovans then all this bullshit.

Craig just rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Hey _fluffy_, you're with Stan now."

Kyle frowned, twisting uncomfortably round on the bench. His coat was pretty constricting when it came to twists and bends. "What do you mean? I'm with Stan for what?"

"In economics. We switched. You're with Stan now."

"You can't just do that you know."

"I didn't. Token didn't want to work with Stan. Some pointless Wendy drama or whatever, I don't even know. You couldn't pay me to give enough of a shit. But fuck it, he asked Harris. Harris said it was fine."

Kyle sighed, tilting his face towards the wall. There was a faded, torn poster of a dancing tomato advocating healthy eating pinned up there. He'd always hated that fucking tomato. "And you just let it happen?"

"Dude, I don't know if you've met Token's financial advisor or whatever, but that dude's a guaranteed A+."

Frowning, Kyle bit his bottom lip. "_I'm _a guaranteed A+."

"Yeah, but you don't have imported Japanese video games and a sixty inch widescreen. Your guarantee comes perk-free."

Kyle rolled his eyes, burying his face in the crook of his sleeve. He officially hated this day. Forget faking flu, when he got home he was going to choke down a shitload of Paracetamol and pray his kidneys failed again. Maybe then he would get a few months off. Maybe then he wouldn't have to face this shit until Christmas was over. He could just sleep and wake up next year.

"I hate you Craig."

Craig just shrugged. "It's not like it matters. Me or Marsh, you'll only end up writing it all anyway. That's just what you _do_."

"Just fuck off Tucker."

Craig just raised an eyebrow. "Don't take it so personal fluffy. I mean, I had no idea you wanted to work with me so _bad_. I'm _flattered_, but-"

"Oh, just _fuck off _Tucker. Go whack off with the goth kids or something!"

Snorting, Craig reached down and flicked the back of Kyle's head with mild affection. The sort of aggravating affection one has for those irritating snappy dogs. Kyle just glared, twisting round to swat his hand away. "You know, you're such a _nice_ person Kyle. Between your _winning_ personality and your weird-ass computer nerd boners, I just don't understand why you're not more popular."

"No-one asked your opinion Tucker. No-one cares about you!"

"Whatever. I _promise_ I'll partner with you next time, 'kay?"

Kyle just glowered up at him, clearly unimpressed. Smiling, Craig raised both his hands in mock surrender, carefully backing away. There was something cathartic in winding Kyle up. He got why Cartman found pressing his buttons just oh-so satisfying.

Kenny quirked an eyebrow, watching Craig's retreating form. Watching him disappear back into the noise and clutter of the canteen. "I don't know why you're getting your panties in such a twist fluff. He has a _point_. It's not like it matters. Craig or Stan, you're the one who'll write it all anyway. You're always the one who writes it all anyway. That's just what you _do_."

"It _does _matter."

"_Why_?"

"Because Craig just _shuts the fuck up and fucks the fuck off_. He just nods and hums on cue. He just lets me get it _done_. Marsh is a _moron_. He always seems to think his pointless opinions _matter_. He always seems to think he can help!"

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Kenny drew in a breath. Stan's constant concern and desire to appease had always been somewhat grating, Kenny would willingly admit that, but Kyle was something else. Kyle was in a league of his own. "Nothing ever pleases you, does it? You bitch when you have to do it on your own, you bitch when you get help. You could win the fucking lottery and shit out a pile of diamonds and you'd still bitch about how unfair life is. You'd bitch that your silly old wallet was too small for all your _money_, you'd bitch that all those mean old rocks hurt your poor little buttonhole."

Kyle sighed. "I _do_ want help, but… But…"

"But what?"

"But I don't want to actually have to _talk _to…" Kyle wrinkled his nose, turning his face away. He didn't want to say it. He didn't need to. To him, the animosity of an ended friendship went unsaid. Instead he chose to finish it with the far more ambigious "To these idiots. I want _help_, but I want help from people who actually _can _help."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Kenny smiled sarcastically. "Well I'm sorry we can't all boast your _massive_ intellect Fluffy. It must be so _hard _for you, you and your _godlike __brilliance_, forced to _exist _next to us mere _mortals_ down here on Earth. I _feel_ for you, you and all your spoilt rich-boy problems. _I feel for you_, _dude_."

Kyle pursed his lips. "Well, there's no reason to be such a _dick_, Kenny."

"When it comes to you, there's always reason to be a dick Kyle."

* * *

A/N – Ayah, sorry for the prolonged unannounced mini hiatus there. Shit went down and I suck dicks and all that. Still, job is over now and I'm back home in good old Blightly (Yay!), so hopefully I'll be cranking the gears up soon. Also this whole storykin endeavour might end up a long one, because I want to make it long. Anyway, chacha candyflosskins, thank you thank you for sticking around, awesomesauces awesomesauce thank you thank you for reviewing. Is so lovely of you, yup yup yup.


	5. Buy More Shit or We're All Fucked

Kyle sighed, tugging his hair out of his face, pressing his forehead against the cold metal of his locker. He had a headache. He blamed Kenny for that. And Cartman. They were usually the reason he ended up with a headache. They were just _dicks _like that. Behind him, the rest of the fuckers that comprised the student body were stomping about, talking way too loudly. Shouting at each other, screaming at each other, laughing, shrieking, bleating, howling. Like a bunch of hyenas. A pack of wild animals stampeding their way to the next class. That's all this school was. It was nothing more then a glorified zoo. Kevin Stoley was pulling books out of the locker next to Kyle's, humming gently to himself. Kyle contemplated kicking him in the shin, screaming at him to be quiet, screaming at everyone to just_ shut up_, but he refrained. A stream of mildly irritating, off-key humming and a shitton of irritating shrieks were really the least of his problems right now.

Kevin shut his locker, pausing his tuneless rendition of Poker Face a to bid Kyle an unreciprocated goodbye. Kyle bit his lip, shutting his eyes as he crossed his arms across his chest, part hugging himself, part pulling his duffel coat shut. If he didn't start moving soon, he was going to be late. Not that he cared. He was tempted to just go home. Jack it all in, blow off last period in favour of his bed, his computer. His floppy disks. He would have gone home, had it been any other class. But he actually quite liked calculus. It was one of the few things that challenged him.

"Are you alright?"

Kyle blinked, pulling his face off his locker door. Stan was leaning on Kevin's locker, leaning on Kevin's poster, his elbow resting on Luke Skywalker's face.

"I'm fine."

Stan frowned at him. His concerned frown. His stupid concerned frown. "You don't look it."

"Well I am. I'm _fine_."

"You sure? You look sort of peaky."

"Oh, just fuck off! I'm _fine_. I'm fucking _fine_!"

"Jeez Kyle, keep your panties on! I was only _asking_."

Kyle pulled a face, tilting his head away. "_Whatever_."

Stan exhaled, rolling his eyes, glairing down the corridor over the top of Kyle's head. He was still leaning on Kevin's poser, still elbowing Luke Skywalker in the face. Still flexing his biceps, tensing his arms absentmindedly. Pursing his lips, Kyle frowned down at his shoes. He perhaps shouldn't have been so snappy. But he had a headache. He wasn't feeling well. The last thing he needed was Stan here, bothering him, whining at him about the economics report. He just didn't want to have to deal with this right now.

"What do have next?" Stan wasn't looking at him, he was still watching the corridor, staring at commotion over the top of Kyle's head.

"AP Calc."

"I'll walk you."

Kyle frowned, stepping back as he twisted in his locker combination, wrenching open his locker door. "Don't bother. I know the way."

"I would hope so. But that's not the point. Just… Just c'mon, I don't want to be late."

"Then just go."

"_Kyle_!"

Sighing, Kyle wrenched his calculus book out his locker, roughly cramming it into his bag as he slammed his locker door shut. He really didn't want to have to do this. He hated Craig. He hated _Token_. He hated Stan. He hated _everyone_.

Stalking off, Kyle fought though the crowd, ducking and weaving, keeping his head down. Fighting his way through. He tried to keep a pace in front, a pace to the left. He tried to walk as far away from Stan as he could. He tried to walk as far away from Stan as Stan would let him. He didn't want people thinking they were together. He didn't want people thinking the all-star quarterback was actually _walking_ with the computer geek. He didn't want rumours, or talk, or anything like that. He didn't want people thinking they had anything to do with each other. That ship had sailed long ago.

"So." Stan was trying to sound casual, but it wasn't working. It sounded too forced to be casual, too high and throttled. He was striding though the crowd with ease, his hands in his pockets, smiling mildly as he parted the student body like some sort of towering, six foot something cowcatcher. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the shrieks and howls. Shouting over a crowd can never sound causal. "Do you have any ideas on what this report is thing about?"

Kyle frowned, tilting his face to the left, staring at the posters on the wall. Someone needed to take those fucking homecoming posters down. That shit was over now. He was sick of seeing Wendy's grinning face plastered all over the walls, her desperate courting for Homecoming Queen. Her successful courting for Homecoming Queen. Stan hadn't needed posters. He hadn't needed anything. He'd been a shoe in for King without them.

"I have _every _idea what this report is about Stan. It's fucking _easy_."

"Maybe for you, but then everything's easy for you."

"Whatever." Kyle broke left, pushing though a group of sophomores, practically running towards his classroom door. "I'll see you later Stan."

Stan checked his watch. "I'll meet you after school."

"Don't you do that football shit after school?"

"No no, not today. I'll meet you after school."

"I… I can't tonight."

"Why?"

"I'm… I'm-" Kyle hesitated, turning to face Stan, his hand on the doorframe. "_I'm going to the park with Kenny_."

Stan inhaled, pulling a face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look Kyle, just _don't_, yeah?! I'm obviously no happier then you about all this, so how about you just hush it up for an evening, work with me, and we'll just get it _done_. The sooner it's finished, the sooner all this is over. The sooner we can go back to normal. Pointedly ignoring each other in homeroom and averting our eyes awkwardly when we pass in the corridor. You know, the usual shit."

Kyle bit his lip, wrinkling his nose. The bell was about to go. Stan was going to be late. "Dude, just don't worry. I'll write it by myself. It's what I usually end up doing. It's not like it's hard. I have the jist of it on a poster. It's pretty much just a case of 'buy more shit or we're all fucked'. I'll polish that up, stretch it out over a couple of pages, and bam, I'm finished. We don't actually have to _talk _or anything."

Stan frowned at him. Hurt. After all these years, his 'I am hurt' expression was just as pathetic as ever. "I know shit about the economy too Kyle. I'm not stupid. In fact, I'm betting I know more about the subprime mortgage crisis then even you."

Kyle snorted, quirking an eyebrow. "I'd take that bet."

"Headless chickens and kazoo says you'll lose."

"What?"

The bell rang. Stan just sighed. "Look, it… It doesn't matter. I'll-I'll meet you back here after class, alright?"

"Don't bother, I'll-"

But Stan just raised a hand to silence him, before turning on the spot and striding away. Striding down an emptying corridor. Kyle just sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He'd have to ask Mrs. Dewy if he could leave five minutes early. Maybe if he begged her, she'd let him climb out the window or something. That way he could sneak off before Stan arrived. That way he could go home and just bang the report out tonight. He'd just do it on his own.

He always ended up doing it on his own.


	6. Hey, I Just Met You

"Hey, Mrs. Dewy, can-"

"Sit down Kyle."

"But-"

"Sit down Kyle. The bell has rung."

"_But-_"

"_Kyle_!" She looked up from her desk sharply, angrily, her eyes gleaming. The wad of paper clutched tightly in her hands quivered slightly. Kyle took an involuntary step back. Mrs. Dewy had the air of his mother about her, especially when she got irritated. "I said sit down! If you need to see me, see me _after_ class!"

Kyle just stared at her, before letting out an irritated, muffled grunt, turning on his heels and storming to his desk. Seeing her after class was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He should have just skipped. He should have left at lunch. None of this would be happening if he'd just pulled a sickie and gone home. He should have trusted his instincts. Glaring at the false wooden veneer of his desk, Kyle swung his bag off his shoulder and sat down. He'd just have to try slipping out anyway. Maybe if he sprinted out the door the second the bell rung, maybe if he got everything ready before and poised himself on the edge of his seat, maybe he'd be able to get away before Stan arrived. Maybe if he was quick enough, he'd be able to beat him to it.

But hey, maybes were maybes. Turns out, he didn't beat Stan. Despite being the first out the classroom, the first into an otherwise pretty much deserted corridor, despite racing out the door the second the bell rang, it was Stan who beat him. Stan was already waiting for him. Stan won. It was always Stan who won. Rolling his eyes, Kyle gripped the strap of his bag, cursing the universe through clenched teeth. Either Stan was faster than Usain-fucking-Bolt, or his teacher had given _him_ a head start. Kyle wasn't sure which scenario irritated him more.

"So, are you ready?"

"Oh yes." Kyle glared up at him. Stan was doing that cocky, part-grin, part-smile thing again. And the leaning thing. Kyle was sick of the leaning thing. Every time Kyle saw him, Stan was always doing the cocksure, arrogant, one elbow on the wall leaning thing. It was so fucking clichéd, so fucking jock-stereotype, it hurt. It was so _fucking_ irritating. It made Kyle want to punch him. Well, a lot of things made Kyle want to punch him, but the stupid leaning thing seriously did not help. Kyle pulled a face. "_I can hardly wait_."

Stan's smile faltered. He was trying, trying to be civil. Trying to make this work. Kyle knew he was being difficult. But fuck it, Kyle knew he _was _difficult. He'd always had an inherent knowledge of his own flaws. "C'mon dude, just go with it. Don't make this difficult."

Kyle pursed his lips. "_Whatever_."

"Fucking _Christ_ dude, you don't have to be so _cold_ all the time, you know? Just for once, _for once_, can you please just let bygones be bygones?" Kyle didn't say anything, he just crossed his arms across his chest, shooting Stan an unimpressed, sideways glare. "Look, just… Just come on. We'll go get pizza or something."

"Seriously? _We'll go get pizza_?!"

"_Seriously_. We'll go get pizza. Just come on. I'm parked by the art block."

Kyle had never been in Stan's car before. He'd seen it, but then everyone had seen it. The shiny, silver-grey Ford Mustang, not old enough to be considered vintage, not new enough to really be considered _new_. But still impressive, nevertheless. Stan's birthday gift when he turned seventeen. For a fortnight at school, the quarterback's new Mustang was all anybody had been talking about. It'd been pretty sad, really.

So Kyle had seen it, but he'd never been inside it. Not many people had. He was mildly surprised with how nice Stan was keeping it. The clean, dusted dashboard, the empty back seats, the neat little floor mats, hoovered and free of mud. He'd half expected Stan to turn his car into some hoarder's paradise. A bigger, mobile version of his now infamous locker. But no, clearly he cared about his car. Clearly he didn't his locker.

But hey, there was still time. It'd only been a month, after all.

It was incredibly awkward, driving with Stan. They didn't talk. There was nothing to say, really. Stan drove, his eyes glued to the road ahead. Kyle just sat there, his eyes glued out the passenger side window, watching the blur of streetlights with unfocused eyes. Kyle had attempted to do what most people do during incredibly awkward car trips, he'd attempted to turn on the radio. However, when the words 'Hey, I just met you' were blared out at full volume, he'd turned it straight back off again. No amount of awkward silence could ever be more painful then having to listen to eight renditions of Carly Rae Jepsen.

Still, there was only so much sighing and stifled coughing he could take. The hum of the engine and low whine of the heaters really didn't provide much in the way of entertainment. Exhaling, Kyle tugged at his seatbelt, resting his foot on the squeaky-clean dashboard. Stan frowned slightly at his shoe, but didn't say anything.

"Dude, we've been driving for _hours_-"

"We've been driving for half an hour. Don't hyperbole Kyle."

"Alright then, we've been driving for what _feels_ like _hours_. Where the fuck are we _going_?"

"I told you. We're just going to get pizza."

Kyle blinked, sitting forwards, frowning suddenly. "Oh God, you're not taking me out into the wilderness to kill me or anything are you?"

"_What_, dude, _no_!" Stan blinked, tearing his eyes off the road for the first time since they'd left school. "Why on _Earth _would you think that?!"

"Hey, after more than a decade of Cartman, after sixteen years of fucking _South Park_, I can never be too sure. Usually when weird things happen, someone's trying to kill me."

"I'm _not_ trying to kill you Kyle. If I can promise you anything, I can _promise _you that."

Kyle just sighed, cocking his arm against the window, pressing his forearm against the glass. A few weeks ago he'd sewn a fabric Magen David patch onto the elbow of his duffel coat. He thought it would look cool, he thought it _did_ look cool. He knew it wasn't cool, he knew it was pretty damn lame actually, but he didn't care. He wasn't cool, he wasn't going to even _pretend _he was cool. And he liked it. He liked his lame-ass little patch. Still, he was beginning to regret doing it. As much as he liked it, the extra patch of fabric made the elbow of his coat surprisingly stiff. It felt like he had arthritis in his elbow or something.

"Well if you're not planning on smothering me in the woods and dumping my corpse, precisely why are you driving me to _Denver_ to get a pizza?"

Stan shrugged, narrowing his eyes down the highway. It was already pitch black out, pitch black and foggy. It was going to snow tonight. It was going to snow hard. "I'm not driving you to Denver. I'm driving you to a place that happens to be _near _to Denver."

"_Why_?"

"They make nice pizza here."

"They make nice pizza at Whistlin' Willy's too."

"No they don't, don't lie. They make awful pizza at Whistlin' Willy's."

"But-"

"_Besides_," Stan raised his voice over him, cutting Kyle off "it's quieter where we're going. There's no fucking _whistling_, for one. And no-one else goes here. Well," Stan lowered his voice to a mutter, leaning forward in his seat as he squinted through the darkness. Kyle wasn't sure how Stan was navigating himself. There were no street signs, no signposts, no nothing. Just blurry headlights and orange lamps. Stan just seemed to know the way, like the route was ingrained into him. Like he'd driven it so many times before. "None of those _idiots_ from school, at any rate."

Raising an eyebrow, Kyle sat back, crossing his arm tightly across his chest. "I'd be careful what you go muttering Stanley. Those idiots are _your_ friends."

"_Your_ friends are hardly anything to brag about Kyle. The local sex pest and _Cartman_. A pair of real _winners_ you got there."

"Cartman _isn't _my friend!"

"Well fine then. _The local sex pest_. Whoopie-fucking-do Kyle."

Kyle just shrugged, tilting his head towards the window, smiling slightly at the darkness. Smiling slightly at his own reflection. Not that he thought his reflection was much to smile about. "Kenny's Kenny. I'm not going to pretend he's something he isn't. Sure, sometimes he likes to dress up in a cassock and flash girls in the park. Sometimes he likes to get drunk and cop a feel from _anything_ stupid enough to stand still long enough. But… But at least he's loyal. _Fiercely_ loyal. He doesn't just throw a fit and disappear into the darkness over nothing. He doesn't just run off and _abandon_ his friends. At least… At least I know he'll always be there, always be there when I need him. He might try to feel me up along the way, but who gives a shit. He's there, and that's more than can be said about a _lot_ of people Stanley. _Y__ou know?_"

Stan adjusted his grip on the wheel, his knuckles going white against the cheap plastic grips. He was purposefully keeping his eyes glued to the road. Purposefully refusing to look Kyle in the eyes. His over attentive driving really was a brilliant excuse. "I know Kyle. Trust me, I fucking know."

* * *

A/N – Get Kyle's age wrong? No, of course I didn't get his age wrong. He's always been sixteen. I didn't just have to edit that or anything. Totes always been this way. My eyes are totally not shifty. I don't know what you're talking about. Ah-hem. But hey, thank you thank you for reading, I hope you're enjoying Stan and Kyle actually conversing. Thankyouthankyou for reviewing, is soso lovely of you, so awesomesauce and kind and loves love.


	7. Fake Retro

Kyle had dealt with many, many excruciatingly awkward moments in his life. There had been the painful family moments, the unnecessary, faltering talks with his father. The horrific, mentally scarring talks with his mother. There had been all the shit caused by Kenny, caused by Kenny's obsessive need to sexually offend anything that respired. There had been all that shit with Cartman, that whole ball-sucking incident. Pursing his lips, Kyle shifted his can five inches to the left. The cold aluminium left a ring of condensation on the shiny holographic mosaic table top. Kyle hated the table top. He hated everything about this place. It was all so clichéd, so overdone. All shiny chrome trim, fake leather seats. All scuffed linoleum. All fake. Fake retro. It was too much. It was just _painful_.

Exhaling, Kyle bit his lip. Out of all the awkward moments he'd faced in his short, painful life, this… This _experience_ topped them all. He'd sooner spend all night discussing masturbation with his dad then spend another silent five minutes sitting in this booth, staring at the table top. Waiting for the worlds slowest waitress to bring them their pizza. Waiting in silence with Stan. Wrinking his nose, Kyle shut his eyes against the overly bright florescent lights. He wished he hadn't let Stan drive him all the way out here. He wished he hadn't agreed to order a pizza. He wished he hadn't let Stan lure him with food. He wished he wasn't so fucking _hungry_. He wished he'd just demanded Stan turn the car around, he wished he'd just made Stan drive him back home. They could work on the report in the school library. They didn't need to drive to the outskirts of Denver to discuss the economy.

"You know," Stan cleared his throat. He was speaking quietly, keeping his voice low. Kyle had no idea why. The diner was pretty much empty. Kyle didn't really give a shit if the geriatric couple two booths down wanted to eavesdrop in on their awkward silence. They were more then welcome to. "I meant what I said. You don't have to be so cold all the time."

Kyle glanced up for a second, before gazing back at his coke can. "I'm not cold."

"You are though. You're so _different_ now. You're so… So _angry_ all the time."

"I'm not angry."

"Well you're not happy."

"Who the hell are you to say what I am?!"

Stan smiled sadly, tilting his head to the right, blinking at his reflection in the wondow. "I've known you all my life Kyle. I know when you're not happy."

Kyle shrugged, his eyes still glued to his coke can. "Well, what can I say? Being forced to spend a childhood in South Park is hardly a pleasant experience."

"You could always… Leave."

"I'll be leaving soon enough, don't you doubt that."

"Oh, don't worry. I won't." Stan was still smiling that sad little smile, still staring down at his fingernails. Still absently chewing on his lip. "Life goes so damn fast, you know?"

Kyle blinked up at him. He wasn't quite sure if Stan was drunk, or high, or something. He was acting sort of high. It would certainly explain why Stan thought driving to Denver for pizza was a good idea. It would explain why he was being so _weird_. And that was the sort of thing the cool kids did, they got high and came to school. At least, that's what Kyle had heard the cool kids did. He didn't have any proof or anything. Stan's eyes weren't red, and he didn't smell of anything illegal. But then, maybe he just used eye drops and Axe.

"Not really, no. I've always found life pretty damn slow. Especially in the shithole of a dump we call home."

Stan smiled. His eyes were fixed on the linoleum table top, he was staring at the shiny, hypnotising surface like it held the secret to the SATs. "Oh come on, you know what I'm talking about! It's like… Like, how one minute, it feels like you've been a child for an eternity, like you've been eight for forever or something. And the next thing you know, your dad's buying you a car and everyone's talking about college and you're spending half your life cramming for exams and the other half running across a field. Like, I can still remember how much I loved my diskman, and my CD's, and then I had an iPod, and an iPhone, and then an iPad. An iPad 2. And there were all those stupid social media sites you used to love. _You_ still love. MySpace, and then Facebook, and then Twitter, and then Tumblr, and who knows what now? So many things coming and going. It feels like, like if you shut your eyes for a minute, just a minute, everything will zoom past you and you'll have no way of catching back up. That's it, you stop for a second and you're finished."

Kyle was glaring at him, wholly unimpressed. "Dude, are you _high_ or what?! Progression is pretty much the whole point of the Information Age."

Stan just smiled, brushing the question off. "It just amazes me. One day we were thirteen, doing something stupid-"

"_You_ were doing something stupid! They were mostly your crackpot ideas Beaver Dam, I just kept on getting dragged into your shit!"

"Don't you put it all on me! You weren't the little saint everyone thought you were either Willzyx!" Kyle opened his mouth to interject, but Stan cut him off with a wave of his hand. "But hey, _whatever_! One day we're thirteen, and _I'm_ doing something stupid. And you're trying to stop me. And then I'm telling you-telling you I never want to speak to you again-"

"Dude, I do remember this, yeah? I was there. Whatever stupid gay nostalgia boatride of miserly you're taking, count me out."

Stan just ignored him, pushing on as though no-one had spoken. Pushing on as though if he didn't say it now, he'd never get it said. He'd die with the words biting the back of his throat. "And you're actually taking it seriously. I'm thinking, 'fuck, it doesn't matter. We'll be fine by next week. We always are'. And then we weren't. And so I think 'hey, there's always the week after!' But no. And then a month passes, and you're still not back. And we're still not talking. And then a year, then two, and I'm like, 'fuck'. And there you are, living your life, being fine and good and making your parents so fucking proud. And we're turning sixteen, and there you are in your _stupid fucking duffel coat_, and your stupid fucking boots, and you're happy and laughing and joking with Kenny and Cartman, and I don't even get to wish you a happy birthday-"

Kyle stood up abruptly. Too abruptly. He caught himself painfully on the edge of the table. He caught himself hard. The jolt sent the ketchup bottle clattering over.

"I'm leaving."

"Wait, what?!"

Kyle wrenched himself out of the booth, wincing as he did. "Fuck you Stan."

"What, why?!"

"I don't give a shit if you want to get drunk or stoned or high or what-the-fuck-ever you are and come to school or drive about like a _cock_, but at least have the respect to keep all that crap away from me! Go wangst-lyrical to your girlfriend or your _bros_, because I don't care. Not anymore!" He inhaled sharply. "_And my coat is not stupid_!"

Stan lunged out, catching hold of Kyle's sleeve, gripping tight. Kyle tried to wrench his arm free, he tried to leave, but Stan had the grip of an iron vice. He had the grip of a varsity quarterback. "I'm not drunk! I'm not high! I'm not anything!"

Kyle tried to pull his arm away, but Stan held tight. Narrowing his eyes, Kyle struggled harder. The geriatric couple were watching them with mild concern. "Then why the fuck are you acting _fucking_ weird?!"

"I'm just sad! I'm just-Fuck Kyle!" Stan blinked, and let go. Kyle blinked, and took a step back. Stan was crying. Not properly. Not gasping, wracking sobs. But his eyes were too bright. Too wet. Kyle knew, and Stan knew Kyle knew. He didn't try to hide it. Kyle knew Stan was an overemotional pussy. He'd always known. But crying in a diner really was something else. "I just wanted to be your friend again, but I couldn't! Because... Because…"

"Because you were too much of a pussy just to say you were sorry?"

"Because I _couldn't!_ But I don't care, not anymore. I just want-I just want-" Stan took a breath. "I just want you to sit back down!"

Kyle blinked. "Alright."

"What, seriously. Just like that?"

"Well, yeah. There's no need to _cry_ about it." He paused for a second, smoothing the creases out his duffel coat. "Besides, you insisted on driving me to fucking Denver for a pizza. _You're _the one who's going to have to drive me back home."


	8. One Misguided Folly

Kyle felt like they'd had to endure several centuries of awkward silence before the aging waitress finally kicked into gear and brought the pizza. She slid it down on the table with a thin smile and a mumbled pleasantry. Kyle thanked her automatically, even though there wasn't a single part of this experience he was even remotely thankful for. Stan just grimaced slightly (Kyle assumed it was meant to be a smile), nodding in half-hearted acknowledgement. For a second they were silent, before Kyle cleared his throat, reaching across the table and pulling a slice onto his plate. He wasn't sure what toppings Stan had ordered. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted any pizza. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he was hungry any more. He had been starving, but now, now he just felt… Weird. Still, at least eating gave him something to do with his hands. It gave him something to focus on. Something that wasn't the holographic table top or his bitten down fingernails. It was far easier to eat in awkward silence then it was to just sit in awkward silence. At least, that was in Kyle's opinion. Stan obviously didn't share this sentiment. Stan didn't really eat anything. Which was something Kyle found quite irritating actually. If Stan didn't actually _want_ any of this godforsaken pizza, why the _fuck _were they here?

Well, he knew the answer to that. They both did really. Pulling a face, Kyle wiped his fingers on a napkin; it had been so long since they last spoke, he had very nearly forgotten just how much of a pussy Stan could be. Only Stan could be so pathetic as to use a stupid economics report to drive him to the outskirts of Denver, simply so he could sit Kyle down in some secluded, irrelevant, tacky little diner and cry in front of him. It was nearly as bad as that time he'd locked all those stupid baby cows in his room. Not quite, but nearly. He was one misguided folly into vegetarianism away from break out in tiny little vaginas again.

Stan was clutching a coffee mug, wrapping both hands around it. He was staring at the ketchup bottle, smiling to himself. He'd been smiling to himself for the past ten minutes, just smiling to himself whilst Kyle had been eating. It was beginning to get creepy. Pursing his lips, Kyle pressed his back against the plastic leather seat, tilted his head away, scratching his stomach absentmindedly. It hurt, where he'd caught the edge of the table. It'd probably bruise. He didn't particularly want a bruise on his stomach. He didn't particularly want a lot of things, but not particular wanting them didn't mean they didn't still happen. Life was just shit like that.

"Are you alright?"

"What?"

Stan tilted his chin up, gesturing slightly. "Your tummy? Are you alright? You caught yourself pretty hard."

"My _tummy_? Jesus Christ Stan. What are you, _six_?!"

"Your _stomach_ then! Christ, there's no need to get your panties in a twist! I was only asking if you were okay."

Kyle sighed. Stan looked so damn dejected, it was beginning to make him feel a little bit uncomfortable. And a little bit guilty. He was pretty damn certain he didn't have anything to feel guilty about, everything that had happened, everything that _was_ happening, it was all _Stan's_ fault. But still, he felt guilty. "Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine. It'll probably bruise though."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I'm still sorry. About everything. I'm sorry Kyle. I shouldn't have brought you out here. It was stupid of me. When... _If_ you're done, I'll drive you home. Just let me finish…" He tapped the side of his mug, rippling the surface of his coffee. Kyle was certain it must be cold by now, but he didn't say anything. "Just let me finish my drink, and I'll drive you back home."

Kyle just nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn't quite know what to. He didn't know what to say. He was relatively certain there was nothing to be said. So he just cleared his throat. "My coat isn't stupid, Stan."

Stan didn't look at him. He pointedly wasn't looking at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, or on his hands, or on his cup. He kept his eyes fixed anywhere that wasn't Kyle. It was like talking to a guilty four year old. "No, no it's not. I have no idea why I said that. It's a pretty awesome coat actually. I've always liked your coat."

Kyle sighed, leaning back, pulling a hand through his hair. "Well, thank you, I guess."

"You must really hate me."

Kyle frowned. "I don't… I don't _hate _you."

"Are you sure? _I'm _hating me at this particular moment."

"I've never hated you Stan. _I _never said I did. That was _all_ you. You just really… You really were a _dick, _you know? And doing shit like _this_ isn't really helping. I mean, _why_ did you drive me out here? And don't you _dare_ say just because they make good pizza, because that" Kyle wiggled his fingers at the remnants on the platter. He should probably ask the waitress for a doggy bag for the last few slices. It would be a shame to waste them, Ike would probably appreciate them "is _fine_, but it damn sure ain't anything special."

Stan shrugged, his hands still clasped around his mug. "I guess… I guess I just wanted to spend some time with you. It's been so long since I actually got to be around you, I… I just wanted it milk it really."

"You could have milked it without leaving South Park. We could have gone and sat in a car park or something. You could have wangst your heart out there."

"You'd have just left. Don't pretend like you wouldn't have just walked out of here had I left you the option to." Kyle opened his mouth to retaliate, but Stan waved him off. "Look, just…" He stood up, awkwardly pulling himself out the booth. "Just wait here a moment. I'm going to go pay, then we can leave."

Kyle nodded, rearranging his coat so he could dig around in the pocket. "Do you want some-"

"Don't worry, I've got it."

"Well, thank you. I guess."

"Don't mention it. It really is the least I can do after his whole fiasco." He pulled himself free from the booth, pausing for a second as he brushed the creases out of his jeans. Kyle watched him smooth out his shirt, biting the inside of his cheek. "And just for the record, I _never_ hated you either Kyle. I should never have said that. I just… I just didn't know what else to say. It was either that, or tell you…" He shrugged, looked up, and shook his head.

Kyle just quirked his eyebrow. He had no idea what Stan was talking about, or what wangst train he was riding. He really did have no idea what to say. So he just cleared his throat. "Ask the woman if we can have a doggy bag. I'll take the leftovers back for Ike."


	9. You Do Little But

"You could have just said you were sorry."

Stan was too busy raking through his jeans pockets to look up. "What?"

Kyle exhaled a breath of condensation, crossing his arms across his chest, stamping his feet slightly. It was freezing, frickin freezing, and pitch black. Dense storm clouds covered the stars, filling the sky. Kyle couldn't even see the moon through it all. It was an awful night really. The only light they had was the runoff from the diner behind him, the eerie glow from the flickering, neon sign, the cold brightness from the windows. There was a street lamp stuck halfway down the street, but the dim bulb didn't offer much in the way of illumination. All it did was draw out the shadows, colouring everything an unappealing, dull orange. The mixture of dusky orange and cold bright white didn't cast them in a particularly flattering light. Nothing about this night was particularly flattering. Not the tacky little diner, not Stan's crowning moment of pussy. Not these run down, beat up outskirts. It all felt very unsettling. Very unsettled. It was going to blizzard tonight.

Kyle cleared this throat, staring down at the grit between his feet. "If you wanted to… I dunno, talk to me again or whatever. All you had to do was say sorry."

"It wasn't that easy."

"Sure it was. 'I'm sorry I told you I hated you and said that you should go die. I didn't mean to say it, I'm just a massive diva cocksucker who likes to throw her toys out of the pram.' There you go, it's all you had to say."

Stan smiled slightly. "It's _wasn't_ that easy."

"Sure it-"

Stan exhaled a muted curse, glancing over the hood of the car. Glancing up at Kyle. "Look Ky, just trust me on this. Not everything can go back to being just as it was a week after disaster. Some things just need to stay, I dunno, _dead_ for a bit. Sometimes things need to change." Kyle bit his lip, crossing his arms across his chest. Stan just smiled. Sadly. "Besides, you're fucking terrifying when you're angry. And you're _always _angry. Walking up to you when you have your whole bitchface thing on feels a bit like smothering yourself in honey and prancing up to an angry bear."

"My _bitchface_ thing?! I don't _have _a bitchface thing!"

"You _really _do. And it's _terrifying_."

"I really _don't_!"

"Look" Stan finally found his keys, pulling them out of the flannel pocket on his chest, "just stop doing you little wardance or whatever and get in the car."

"It's not a _wardance_, I'm fucking freezing!"

"Well _get in the car_ then. The sooner you get in, the sooner you can play with the heaters."

Kyle relented, wrenching open the passenger side door and gracelessly sitting down. He frowned as Stan sat down next to him. "Why are you not wearing a _coat_? It's like, thirty degrees or something!"

"It's not." Stan started the ignition, tapping the dashboard, waiting for the display to light up. "See, it's forty-five. It's fine."

"You should still be wearing a _coat_."

Stan shrugged. "I'm warm enough as is."

"But-"

"_Hush it_. Stop _worrying_. It's fine, _I'm _fine. I don't need a coat. Now here," he thrust a brown paper bag onto Kyle's lap. "Take your doggy bag and stop the _whining_."

"I don't _whine_!"

"My God Kyle! You do little but!"

Kyle glowered at him, clutching the paper bag against his chest. "I think I preferred the whole not talking thing we had going on."

"Don't lie. You're enjoying this just as much as I am."

"You're _enjoying _this? Jesus Christ Stan. _Jesus Christ_."

Stan just grinned at him, shifting the car into reverse and lifting his foot off the break.

The drive home was far less awkward then the drive out. Mostly because the radio DJ managed the refrain from playing Carly Rae Jepsen, which meant Kyle managed to refrain from turning the radio off in rage induced irritation. Stan was too busy frowning out the window, concentrating on the road to attempt to initiate conversation. He made the passing comment, but no more than that. Kyle had been right. They were driving into the beginnings of a blizzard.

Even with the bad weather, they still made it back to South Park in good time. Stan pulled up against the curb, put the car in park, and opened his door. Kyle frowned after him. He didn't really need Stan to escort him to his front porch. As fucked up as South Park was, there were very few things that could go wrong in the few seconds it took him to stomp across his front lawn.

"This was nice."

Kyle quirked an eyebrow disbelievingly, turning round on his doormat to face him. The motion caused the porch light to click on, which nearly blinded Stan, but there was little he could do about that. Kyle just blinked, shaking his head as Stan rubbed his eyes. He wasn't quite sure what meal Stan had been at. The one he had been at could be called a lot of things. Nice was not one of those things.

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was. It was nice. Getting to talk to you again. Getting to hang out. It was nice. We should do it again. I mean, I forgot how much fun you can be when you're not glaring at me. I forgot how… how… I missed it."

Kyle put his hands on his hips, quirking his eyebrows as he clutched his doggy bag against his coat. "_Really_?!"

"Yes, really. Really really. I had fun."

"You're very easily amused there days."

"Maybe."

Kyle opened his mouth to say something else, but Stan cut him off, reaching out and pulling Kyle in an awkward, unreciprocated bear hug. Blinking, Kyle just gripped his doggy bag tighter, keeping his arms braced against his sides. It was a massively awkward pose, and Kyle didn't even contemplate reciprocating, but none of that mattered. Reciprocation wasn't necessary for this hug. Stan was doing enough hugging for the both of them really.

"Kyle?" He could feel Stan's words, the vibration of Stan's diaphragm as he spoke. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on. He assumed all this hugging was just some jock tradition. Like the whole high-five, fist bump, slap on the ass thing. He never hugged Kenny like this. He'd probably catch tetanus or something if he did.

Kyle addressed the night sky over Stan's left shoulder, his face part smothered by Stan's shirt. "Yeah."

"_I'm sorry I told you I hated you and said that you should go die. I didn't mean to say it, I'm just a massive diva cocksucker who likes to throw her toys out of the pram_. That was it, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that was it."

"So we can be friends again, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Just, you know, _let go_ _of me now_."

"Right, alright." Stan pulled back, smiling slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow Kyle."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

Stan smiled, gripped the top of Kyle's arm lightly, before letting go and walking back to his car. Kyle blinked, shaking his head. He had no idea what had just happened. He had no idea what the fuck was going on.


	10. The Pink Gun

Stan was leaning against his desk the next morning, his arms crossed across his front, his chin tucked against his chest. He wasn't used to getting up so early, not anymore. Not since his dad had brought him the car. It was pretty obscene really, having to beat the sun out of bed, he wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it for so long. Still, he was beginning to understand why Kyle looked so damn cranky all the time. He was probably just tired. Exhausted even. It would also explain the perpetual sand-in-vagina demeanour, as well as the whole falling asleep in really peculiar places thing he had going on. Stan had only done this for one day, and he was already falling asleep on his feet. If he did it for a week, he'd probably start passing out during lunch period too. That'd irritate Wendy. But then, everything seemed to irritate Wendy, so Stan didn't really care.

At least if he was asleep, he'd be unconscious during her irritation.

Kyle threw open the door, storming into the homeroom in an angry flurry of clingy snowflakes and bad mood. Stan started, opening his eyes and blinking to himself. Kyle just frowned at him, brushing the few remaining snowflakes off his coat, purposely trying to spread as many as he could across Craig's desk. Simply for the sake of being awkward. If he was cold and damp, other people had to be cold and damp too.

"Fuck me Stan, you're here early."

Smiling, Stan continued blinking himself awake, tilting his head back and exposing his throat. "Well, so are you."

"Only because the bus gets here early. I'm not here early by _choice_."

"I could drive you, you know. It'd take no time at all to pick you up. You could have another half-hour in bed."

Kyle didn't look at him. He was too busy using his fingertips to melt the snowflakes on Craig's desk. "Kenny's already offered."

Stan swallowed. Sleep had made his mouth dry. It was pretty unpleasant really. "But you didn't accept."

"Of course not. I'd rather get here early then end up dead."

"Well, my car's heaters work-"

"Oh, big whoop Stanley. I think I might faint with excitement!"

"_It also_ has functioning seat belts, airbags, and a passenger side door that actually opens. You don't have to mount me in order to get in or out." Stan smiled, spreading his arms, hands open, palms up, like some kind of vicar about to start a service. "Any mounting would be purely voluntary."

Kyle just rolled his eyes, dropping his bag on his desk, sitting down heavily in his chair. He wanted to snap out something sarcastic, bite out an insult, but he really couldn't think of anything. He wasn't awake yet. His brain was still dull and muffled with sleep. He needed five minutes to wake up. He always needed five more minutes to wake up. He hadn't expected anyone else to be here, not for a good while yet. Not even Butters came in this early, and Butters was a real weirdo. He had no idea what Stan was playing at. He had no idea what game this was.

Blinking, Kyle frowned, shutting his eyes against the sickly florescent lights, burying his face against his sleeve. "Don't you already drive in with Wendy anyway?"

Stan frowned, sitting down next to him. Shamelessly taking Kenny's chair. Kyle opened one eye to glare at him. He was sitting side saddle, his elbow resting precariously on the plastic chair back, one knee cocked over the other. It was such a posing, pussy way to sit, Kyle wanted to slap him. No self-respecting football player should ever sit like such a dandy. "No, she drives in with Bebe or Red or someone. I don't know."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Just oh Stan. Just oh."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Kyle crossed his arms on his desk, burying his face into the rough, felted sleeves of his duffle coat. They were damp, and cold, but he just didn't care. Maybe he could just ignore Stan and the stupid way he was sat. Maybe if he ignored him, Stan would shut up. Maybe he could just go to sleep anyway. Maybe maybe. "Oh."

"So, does 'oh' mean you want to drive in with me or not?"

Kyle exhaled slightly. He just wanted Stan to shut up. "Oh means maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe. I'll see."

"Alright, well just let me know."

"Will do."

"Good."

For a blissful minute, Stan was quiet. There was nothing to disturb Kyle but the random rustlings of the rest of the class arriving, their shrill, squawking greetings. The retarded, shrieking noises he'd spent a lifetime blocking out. It was just background music now. Irritating, irritating background music. Kyle smiled against his coat, enjoying the soft lull of exhaustion, the stuffy, pitch-black nest of arms and wool. The faint, far off promise of sleep.

Then Stan cleared his throat. "Do you want to work on the paper tonight? For real, I mean. We didn't get anything done yesterday."

Kyle bit his lip and sat back up, involuntarily squinting against the acrid light. Stan wasn't going to shut up. He wasn't going to let him nap. It wasn't going to happen. Kyle might as well just stop trying. "I don't know why you're so concerned about this paper. It's piss easy. It should only take a couple of hours."

"Well, let's just get it done then."

Kyle frowned. "You don't have to hang around if you don't want to Stan. You don't need to wait for me, or be with me, or attach yourself to me like some kind of enamoured stalker. I already told you, I can do it myself. You don't need to be there all the time. You don't need to be here at all."

"No, it's not that. I want to be here. It's just, if we get it done quickly, we can go get a coffee or something. We could go play Time Crisis."

"They still have Time Crisis?"

"Of course. Everyone loves Time Crisis. I'll even take the pink gun, if you want."

Kyle just stared at him, crossing his arms across his chest. Stan hated the pink gun. He'd always hated the pink gun. It'd always been pretty damn weird, the immense loathing he'd had for that stupid gun. "You really want to be friends again that badly, huh?"

Stan just blinked at him. He was still sitting side saddle. Still propping his elbow against the back of the chair. Still sitting in that stupid-ass way. "Yeah. Dude, what I said last night, I meant it. I… I miss you. I really do want-"

He never found out what Stan wanted, because Kenny chose that moment to beam Kyle on the back of the head with a half-empty water bottle. Kyle yelped and gripped the back of his head, Kenny just cleared his throat.

"Hey fluffy. Butters needs some of your old floppy disks. The broken ones. Hey Marsh, you're in my seat, fuck off."

"Ouch, you fucking dick! What the fuck did you do that for?!" Kyle was cradling his head, glaring up at a brazen Kenny. Stan was hovering half-way out of his seat, reaching towards Kyle in uncertain, awkward concern.

"I actually didn't mean to. I was aiming for Stan."

Stan frowned. "How the fuck did you _miss? _Your aim must be fucking _awful_, Kenny." Kyle bit his lip, wrinkling his nose. Stan cleared his throat. He'd decided to push through the awkwardness and stand up fully. Kyle felt him rest one hand on his shoulder, before pressing the other over the back of his own, over the bump, gingerly holding it there. Gingerly applying pressure. He was incredibly hot, incredibly clammy, which wasn't necessarily what Kyle wanted. He'd have preferred something colder. He'd have preferred some ice, or some snow. But at least Stan was trying. At least Stan was _concerned_.

"Well I'm _sorry _Stanley. Maybe the varsity quarterback will be willing to give me some pointers. You know, once he's finished fondling my best friend's hair and everything."

"Just fuck off Kenny."

Kenny didn't oblige. He didn't budge an inch. He remained rooted in place, watching Stan tend to Kyle with a quirked eyebrow, his arms crossed pointedly across his chest.

* * *

A/N - I think my postgrad course is trying to kill me, hurnggh.


	11. That Goddamn Ushanka

"Are you still pissed off about the whole bottle thing?"

Kyle swallowed his mouthful of pizza. Slightly too fast, as it turned out. The crust caught in his throat and nearly caused him to choke. Kenny watched him struggle with a raised eyebrow. It was adorably pathetic really. Kyle spluttered for a bit, before finally managing to choke out a rather definitive _yes_.

Kenny just shrugged, stepping over the bench and dropping himself down next to him. Slightly too close for comfort, but Kyle was under no doubt that was intentional. Kenny had never really cared all that much for personal space. "Well whatever, I said I was sorry. You can incubate that sand in your vagina all you want, but at least go talk to Butters."

"Why do I need to go talk to Butters?"

"He's still after your floppy disks."

Kyle crossed his arms, sitting forwards on the bench. Pushing his lunch tray away from him. He wasn't really feeling like pizza anymore, not after his coughing fit. Cartman would probably eat it, once he was done trying to swindle the lunch staff for seconds. "Why doesn't he just ask me himself?"

Kenny shrugged, pulling the crust off the square of bread that composed his meagre lunch. "I dunno. Maybe he doesn't want to put you out, maybe he doesn't want to bother you. Maybe he's scared of you. He probably hasn't got round to it yet. I dunno how that kid functions."

"Why does he need them anyway?"

"Again, _I dunno_. Art or something. I wasn't really listening to him. He was just whining on, I mentioned you had a boner over them, and he got all exited. Maybe he has a boner over them too. Maybe you two can bond over your mutual freaky-ass floppy disk boners. You can press your erections together and print t-shirt's and _everything_."

"Go screw yourself Kenny. Tell him I'll bring him some broken ones tomorrow."

"Attaboy fluffykins."

Kyle just frowned, propping his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm. Across the canteen, Clyde was shouting something, gesturing wildly with his hands. The rest of the football team was laughing, slightly too loudly. Stan was laughing, slightly too loudly. Kyle sighed, shutting his eyes. It was pretty damn irritating, really. Pretty damn stupid.

Kenny glanced across the canteen, chewing on a corner of his bread. Stan was talking now. His gestures were slightly less violent then Clyde's, but no less irritating. "Not sitting with your Super Butt Buddy today?"

Kyle didn't even bother to open his eyes. "No, I'm sitting with the po'boy instead."

"Oh, fluffy's getting _catty_. Don't get pissy at me just because Stanley's…" Kenny trailed off, pulling a face. "What the fuck _is_ Stan doing?"

Exhaling, Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. One minute Stan was haunting the homeroom, waiting for him like some particularly needy ghost. The next, nothing. He was ignoring him at lunch. He was back to acting like just another stupid cliché "I don't know. He's blowing hot and cold. He's all twitchy about this report or something. I'm sure it makes sense to _him_; I'm just letting him get on with it."

Pursing his lips, Kenny cocked his head. "Maybe he's got a boner for you. This could be his clumsy attempts at seduction. Lead you on then ignore you. It's a classic slut technique. I use it all the time."

"Oh, just fuck off."

"What? I'm serious! He must have been though all the girls in the school twice by now. It's no wonder he's sniffing around the next best thing."

Kyle blinked his eyes open, raising an eyebrow. "_The next best thin_g?"

"You know. Girly men."

"_Girly men_? Dude, what?! God, why do you always have to be so _insulting _all the time? Fuck me, you're supposed to be my _friend_."

"Well you're hardly _manly _flufforita."

"I'm manlier then _you_!"

"No you're not."

"I _really fucking am_, you scrawny little assfuck!"

Kenny raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm not the one Napoleon would choose to pose next to in photographs-"

"I can't help how fucking _tall _I am, you dick!"

"And when was the last time you had a haircut?"

"I'll get a haircut when I find someone who can cut hair like mine! The last one I got was _awful_. I'm sick of looking like some mushroom cloud atomic disaster. I'm so fucking sick of having to wear stupid fucking _hats._ I swear to Christ, if I see that goddamn ushanka one more time I am going to _smack a fucking bitch_!"

"No-one can cut hair like yours because nobody _has _hair like yours. That monstrosity is unique to you fluffzilla. Well... You and your _mother_."

"Leave my mother out of this, fuckface!"

"Hey, don't get pissy at me because your _boyfriend's_ ignoring y-"

"He's not my fucking boyfriend! And he's not trying to _seduce _me! He probably… I dunno, he probably just wants to be friends again. That's what he said, anyway. After… After paying for the pizza." Kyle casually omitted the awkwardness. And the crying. Kenny probably didn't need to know about Stan's crowning moment of pussy.

Kenny snorted. "Well he's got a good memory, that's undeniable."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"You'd forgive _anyone_ if they brought you dinner. You're a bit of a whore like that. Or a bit of a _Jew_."

"Fuck you. I'm not a _bit_ of a Jew, I'm a _lot_ of a Jew."

"Oh yeah," Kenny smiled wryly, chewing on his bread crust "you're all five-foot-five of Jew."

"I'm fucking _taller_ then five-five!"

Kenny just shut his eyes and smiled. Kyle never had been a very good liar, and Kenny wasn't going to kick the dog whilst it was already down. "Just be careful incy-wincy-fluffy."

"Careful of what? _It's fucking Stan_. What's he going to do?! Pussy all over me?!"

For a second Kenny just bit the inside of his cheek. "He could lie to you."

"He's not lying to me. Stan isn't like that."

Kenny frowned, lifting his knee to his chest and hugging his dirty, denim-covered leg. He wasn't looking at Kyle, he was staring straight forwards. Staring past everybody, staring at the poster of the stupid dancing tomato, gazing at it like it was a cheat sheet to the SATS or something. "Except for he is though. He really sort of is. He's no Cartman, only Cartman is a Cartman, but Stan isn't always completely honest about everything. He has a tendency to be incredibly deceptive sometimes. _Especially _when it comes to getting things he wants. When it comes to you."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?!"

"It means I remember the fucking beaver dam. It means I remember that stupid anti-bullying video. It means I remember having to spend the most tedious afternoon of my whole entire fucking existence strapped into a harness, dangling from a rope, simply because Stan wanted a fucking _iPod_."

Kyle pulled a face. "He always came clean in the end though."

"Not always before people got _hurt_, though." Kenny sighed, his eyes still fixed on the infuriating dancing tomato. "Just… I don't know, I just want you to be careful fluffette. I don't think Stan's being completely honest with you. And I know what happened… You know… I know how you were last time all this shit went down with him. I don't want you to be the one getting hurt. Not again."

Kyle blinked for a second, before shutting his eyes, crossing his arms on the table and burying his face into the nook of his elbow. "Whatever Kenny. Nobody's perfect. I don't think Stan's lying to me or anything. I think he really does just want to be friends."

"You always were a bit of an overly-trusting moron when it came to believing in people. You're good like that. Good and really, _really_ fucking stupid."

Kyle just blinked into the darkness, turning his face away from Kenny, rubbing his cheek against the coarse wool. He didn't bother to answer back. He didn't really have anything to say. He could talk until he was blue in the face, he could tell Kenny anything under the sun. He could use all the clichés known to man, and it would change anything. Kenny would still be a bitter, untrusting bastard, and Kyle would always be willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. Because that's just who he was. An overly-trusting moron. A moron who should know better by now.

But… But Stan had been sort of right. It _had_ been nice, getting to talk to him again. Getting to hang out. Nice, if sort of really, _really_ awkward.


	12. Double Dip

Stan was haunting the door of his classroom again. Kyle didn't quite know how he did it, the second the bell went, he was there. It was like he'd just apparated there, made himself appear through sheer force or will or something. Frowning slightly, Kyle crossed his arms across the front of his coat. He must be leaving class early; not even the Godly fucking quarterback of the mediocre fucking football team could negotiate the depressing corridors of this godforsaken school _that fucking fast_.

But hey, somehow Stan did it, somehow he was there. Just standing there, smiling stupidly. Just waiting for Kyle. Just like he used to when they were kids.

Driving together was getting notably less awkward. Partly because Stan had given up his half-hearted protests and resigned himself to watching with slightly pained eyes whist Kyle systematically deleted and replaced his cars carefully set radio stations. Mostly because it just was. The Stockholm Syndrome effect was beginning to set in. Stan had forced himself on Kyle enough for it to be working, for the awkwardness to be eroding. For Kyle to think that maybe there were worse things in the world then just trusting him. Then just going with this.

He still didn't know what Stan was doing. He didn't know why Stan was crying in pizza restaurants, he didn't know why Stan had such a boner for this report, he didn't know why Stan was haunting him during homeroom then ignoring him during lunch. He didn't know if Kenny was right, if Stan was hiding something, or holding something back. He didn't know if this was all a lie, if Stan was just playing some very convoluted game. He didn't know if he was going to end up getting burned again, he didn't think he was, but he just didn't know.

And for the time being, he was sort of happy he didn't know. This whole thing was beginning to feel slightly nostalgic, having Stan there. It was enjoyable, not that Kyle would ever admit that to anyone. He was beginning to realise just why he'd been so damn upset when Stan had thrown his hissy fit and told him to go die in the first place. He was realising just how much he'd sort of missed his super best friend, how much he'd missed having Stan trot round after him, having someone who blindly went along with him, blindly trusted him. It was fun, enjoyable. In its own small, secret way, it was making Kyle happy.

And if not knowing meant he could enjoy it just that little bit longer, he was sort of glad he didn't know.

He was definitely glad his mother was out crusading, or starting another war, or taking Ike to one of his hockey games, or whatever she was out doing. She'd always had a fond spot for Stan (but then, most of the adults in this town had a fond spot for Stan), and had she been home, it was doubtless that there would have been much shrieking and fawning and food preparing at this sudden reappearance of South Park's prodigal son. Kyle very much did not like the shrieking and the fawning, so being able to click open his front door and slip Stan upstairs clandestinely was a welcome relief.

Exhaling slightly, Kyle threw his bag against the foot of his bed and clicked on his computer, sitting down heavily in his desk chair. Stan just blinked slightly, gave one of the many boxes of floppy disks a slightly concerned look, before sitting down gingerly on the edge of Kyle's bed.

"Hey da-urh." Stan stopped sharply, nervously clearing this throat. Kyle just blinked at him, looking up from his computer's loading screen.

"Hey Dara? Who the fuck's Dara?"

"Hey dude. I meant to say dude."

"Oh, alright. What?"

Stan swallowed slightly, nervously running his fingertips across Kyle's worn, plaid duvet cover. "Why is everyone calling you fluffy all of a sudden?"

Kyle groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his face into his hands. He was really getting sick of their bullshit now. "_Everyone_ isn't calling me fluffy. It's just _Cartman_. Cartman and _Kenny_. They're just being _dicks_."

Blinking slightly, Stan bit the inside of his cheek. "They've called you worse."

"That doesn't make it any _better_."

"I guess." Kyle heard him move; he heard the creak of the bedframe and the rustle of cotton, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. He didn't need to. He knew Stan was there, behind him, glancing down at the screen, at the freshly loaded, blank document. He just smiled, placing a hand on the back of Kyle's head, knotting his fingers through the hair. Kyle blinked against his fingers. He had half a mind to brush him away, push him off. He would have done, if it had been anyone else. But not Stan. With Stan, it was familiar, a memory he'd not bothered to remember. Stan used to rest his hand there before, when they were kids. He used to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder. He used to watch Kyle work with his hand just resting there. Like Kyle was some particularly obedient lapdog or something.

It'd always driven Kyle nuts when they were younger, the constant weight on the back of his head. He wondered if Stan remembered.

Probably not. He didn't even really remember.

"Is your head alright now?"

Blinking slightly, Kyle dropped his hands to his keyboard. They were such old memories, long forgotten. Left to gather dust in a lonely corner, left alongside the cassette tapes and floppy disks. "My heads fine." He swallowed, slightly awkwardly. "Do you want to start focusing on the report?"

Stan unknotted his hand from Kyle's unapologetically tangled hair. "I guess."

Kyle just cleared his throat, and turned his face back to the screen. "So… So do you want to do the bit about the subprime mortgage crisis then?"

"Oh yeah, do the… The-the Margaritaville bit and all that shit. People buying things they can't afford, bank bailouts. Chicken slaughter and kazoos. A big game wheel. All that jazz."

"Margarita-_what_? Kazoos? What in God's name…"

Stan just waved his hand loosely through the air. "Mortgages and houses and the banking crisis. I got it."

Kyle gave him a sceptical sideways look. "Well if you say so."

"Well go on then, if you know so much. Why hasn't it ended?"

Kyle shrugged. "People aren't buying shit. For this to work, people can't be afraid of buying stuff. Money needs to _move_. It can't just stagnate." Exhaling, Kyle leant back in his chair. "We've already been through this once before. I've paid the debts. But it didn't work. Double dip and all that."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Double dip?"

"Double dip."

"Sounds like something you get at KFC."

"It probably is. You'd have to ask Cartman about that though. Fried chicken is sort of his thing."

Stan smiled. He hand was gone, but he was still standing there. Close, slightly too close. "Well, I know why it happened, you know why it's happening. Together, I'm pretty sure we've got this covered."

"Yup. You say your half, I'll say mine, then we'll sew them together and hey presto, Frankenstein's dog."

"Frankenstein's dog?"

"Frankenstein's dog."

"Alright then. I guess we'd better start writing."

Kyle still wasn't entirely convinced Stan knew about the economy. From his jumbled ramblings, he either knew a whole lot, or absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, he spent the next couple of hours diligently jotting down Stan's eccentric proclamations diligently noting down his own opinions, all whilst trying to decide whether they were going to end up with an A or an F. It was either going to be one or the other. There would be no leeway with this.

"So I'll pick you up tomorrow morning, alright?"

Kyle hesitated, crossing his arms across his chest. The porch light was illuminating several wayward snowflakes, painting them a dusky orange as they drifted lazily to the ground. They were no doubt the first of many. The first of yet another bitter mountain snowstorm. A bitter morning snowstorm.

Kyle very much did not want to start his day standing ankle deep in a bitter morning snowstorm. Not again. Exhaling, Kyle cocked his hip. "Alright."

"Good." Stan reached out again, pulling Kyle into another smothering, jock-ritual bear hug. Kyle just stood there for a second, forcing himself to watch the snow falling behind Stan's shoulder. When it became apparent Stan was in no mood to detach early, Kyle sighed. After a moment of hesitation, he caged his arms around Stan's back, giving him the sort of stiff, awkward hug one usually reserves for that particularly creepy uncle. Not that Stan cared. Reciprocation was reciprocation, regardless of how tentative.

* * *

A/N – Ehehehurrgh, I know, I suck. But I still claim my course is trying to kill me. I really think it is.

Furthermore, I really think it might succeed.


	13. A Bit of a Natural Disaster

Kyle sighed, pressing his forehead against the cold window frame, fogging the glass with his breath. He'd been right about the snowstorm, it was all but blowing a gale outside. Smiling, he shut his eyes. He was glad, glad he didn't have to stand knee deep in the snow this morning, glad he didn't have to freeze his backside off at some stupidly early hour waiting for the bus to arrive. He was glad about that, glad and worried. He probably shouldn't have accepted the offer of a lift from Stan, he probably shouldn't be hugging the window, waiting for him to drive up like some fourteen year old disaster waiting to go on her very first date. He should probably be running a mile, running to the bus stop, running away Stan, from whatever game he was trying to play. But he wasn't.

He was glad he didn't have to stand knee deep in a gale this morning.

He was glad that, if just for a little while longer, he could ignore the doubts that Kenny had solidified.

He could hear his mother screaming at Ike in the kitchen, yelling at him to eat his breakfast, drink his milk, telling him not to be late. He could hear Ike screaming right back at her, logically pointing out that he'd finish his breakfast and down his milk a damn site faster if she stopped screaming at him and just let him eat. His logic failed to impress his mother. She just starting screaming at him about manners, lecturing him about talking back to her. Biting his lip, Kyle screwed his eyes shut. Screaming at each other seemed to be the only way his family managed to communicate in the mornings. Screaming seemed to be the only way his mother could communicate full stop.

Well, screaming and riots. But riots were mostly screaming. They were just a lot of people screaming whilst clutching signs.

The screaming suddenly silenced. Kyle blinked. He heard the stomping footsteps slightly too late, too late to do a runner.

"Kyle! You should have left fifteen minutes ago! You're going to miss the bus!"

"I'm not catching the bus today. I'm getting a lift."

"It's not the McCormick boy again is it?! I told you Kyle, I told you what would happen if I caught you riding in that death-trap of his!"

"It's not Kenny, no."

"Well who is it?!"

Kyle hesitated, turning his face away, staring through the window at the snow. He knew how his mother would react if she knew. "It's no-one. Just the guy I'm doing my business report with. Don't worry, his car has seatbelts and everything. It's fine."

"Does he drive safe?!"

Kyle shrugged. "Safe enough to have a licence."

"Kyle, you know, I'm not comfortable with you driving about with strangers Kyle, especially not when it's icy! It's just not safe!"

Rolling his eyes, Kyle pulled his face away from the window, turning his head to glare at her. He wasn't quite sure why she though the school bus, with its awkward size, worn out tires, cranky old engine, questionably sober driver and complete lack of seatbelts was any safer than a car with seatbelts. Hell, it probably wasn't much safer then Kenny's truck. "He's not a stranger! And his driving's _fine _ma! Christ, we live in _South Park_; you're never _not _driving on ice!"

There was the hum of an engine, the crunch of tires on fresh snow. Kyle turned his face back to the window, watching as Stan killed the engine, watching as he pulled himself out the car. Cursing to himself, Kyle scrambled to his feet, gathering up his bag and his box. It was too late though, his mother had already seen. She made the sort of face she usually only makes when she's succeeded in getting one of Kyle's favourite TV shows pulled, before making a beeline to the door, wrenching it open eagerly, letting in a flurry of cold air and snow.

"Oh, Stanley!" She threw her arms apart, beaming as though she was receiving a standing ovation. Kyle glowered at her, awkwardly forcing on his coat. "It's been so long! How've you been?! How's your _mother_? And your sister?"

"Oh, I'm fine. She's fine too. They're both fine."

Kyle was stomping past his mother, stomping angry bootprints across the garden, grabbing the sleeve of Stan's coat as he passed. "Holy Christ, don't _talk_ to her, just get back in the car and drive!"

Stan did as he was told, calling awkward pleasantries over his shoulder as Kyle dragged him across the lawn.

"God, why couldn't you sit in the car and _honk_ like any normal person would?"

Stan quirked his eyebrow at him. "Because I'm not a cliché from the fifties perhaps?"

Kyle glared at him, wrenching open the car door, hurling his bag and his box onto the back seat, throwing himself down on the passenger side seat with such force, Stan was mildly amazed he didn't break it. Kyle could be a bit of a natural disaster when he got riled up. Blinking meekly, Stan clicked up the door handle, dropping himself onto the driver's seat.

"I don't see why you're so worried. I've met your mom before. _Many _times. I know what she's like."

"It's not that! _Everyone _knows what my mothers like!"

"Well then what is it?"

"It's…" Frowning darkly at the dashboard, Kyle bit the inside of his cheek. "It's just she's gonna be talking about you for _weeks_ now! She won't give me a moment's peace now she knows you're back..." Kyle waved his hand slightly. It was a feeble attempt at a gesture. "Back _around."_

"Why?"

"Because she fucking _adores_ you."

"_Why_?!"

"Because _everyone_ in this shithole of a death sentence _adores _you. You're fucking _Stanley Marsh_, the perfect quarterback saint! King of the white-bread brain-dead!"

Stan was silent for a minute, clicking the car into drive, pulling off the Broflovski's front lawn. "That's not true. Everyone doesn't adore me. _You_ don't adore me."

Kyle tilted his head away, staring out the window. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste metal. "I did once. You know damn well we all did once."

Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. He didn't quite know how to respond to that. Instead he just glanced in the rear view mirror, looking for a chance of subject. As he turned a corner, Kyle's box clattered against the door, rattling slightly. "What's in the box?"

Kyle kept his face glued to the window. "Floppy disks. Broken ones. Butters wants them for his art."

"What's he going to do with floppy disks?"

"I haven't the faintest. You'll have to ask Kenny about all that shit."

"Furthermore, why the _fuck _do you have a box full of broken floppy disks at hand?"

"Did you seriously just use _furthermore _in a sentence?"

"Don't be precious." Stan clicked up the indicator, taking the corner slightly too sharply. The car's back wheels skidded several inches across the snow. Stan cleared his throat, attempting to pretend he'd done that intentionally. Tokyo Drifted it, as it were. Kyle just glared at him. "Anyway, we're a bit early, let's go get a coffee before first bell."

* * *

A/N - Not dead, just busy. Essays and all that painful, painful jazz.

I hate it when people make me do productive things.


	14. The Owl and the Pussycat

Stan was clutching his coffee cup in his left hand, steering the car one-handed with his right. It was stupidly dangerous, Kyle knew, but then, Stan had been patiently listening to him bitch about Cartman for the past fifteen minutes. And he had just bought him a coffee. Kyle wasn't about to pick fault with someone who was listening to him bitch, and who'd just paid for his drink. Even if his stupid driving style was seriously likely to kill him.

"Why don't you just beat the shit out of him. Like you used to do when we were kids?"

"I want to, but he keeps getting me into trouble. If I so much as slap him, he goes whining to a teacher. Or his mother. Like some kind of fucking _toddler._" Kyle groaned, shutting his eyes and pressing his head against the seat. "He's just such a fucking _dick_."

"I _know._ Everyone _knows._ I really wouldn't beat yourself up about it. Besides, Clyde told me he got wedged in his desk last week, during history class. Apparently some kids from the shop room had to come cut him free."

"You're kidding!"

Stan shrugged. "That's what Clyde said. Lord knows if it's true or not, but knowing Cartman, it probably is. Clyde said it took them nearly twenty minutes to hack through the desk and de-wedge him. The poor desk was completely wrecked by the end of it."

For a second Kyle was silent. He could feel it in his throat, the threat of laughter. Proper laughter. The wild, unrestricted laughter he and Stan used to share. He leant forward, gripping both hands round his coffee. His shoulders were shaking. He was laughing, laughing properly. Laughing like he used to when he was a kid.

Stan bit his lip, grinning across at him. "God, it's been a while since I've heard you laugh."

It took Kyle a while to answer, to fight words out through his gasping breath. "It's been a long time since I heard anything that _funny_. Fuck me Stan, that's brilliant!"

"I'm surprised you didn't know. I thought everyone knew. It's been spreading round the school like wildfire."

"Well I'm hardly an active member of the gossip circuit. I only know what Kenny knows. And I really try not to listen to him when he talks. A lot of the stuff he knows... I just really don't want to hear about."

Stan just smiled, deftly turning the steering wheel with his right hand. Kids were milling about the schools car park, paying no attention to the people trying to park.

Kenny was sitting at his desk with his eyes shut, carefully tilting his chair back, rhythmically rocking it on two legs. Kyle slammed the box of floppies down on his desk, causing him to start and nearly overbalance. After a yelp, and some slight windmilling of the arms, he managed to regain his composure, once again balancing himself carefully on his chairs two back legs.

"Thanks for that fluffywuffydodah. There's nothing I like better than a good near death experience in the morning. _Really gets the blood pumping_!"

"You deserved it. You'll crack your fucking head open one day. Or you'll break a chair. It's just _stupid_. Why can't you sit properly?!" Kenny raised his hands in mock surrender. Kyle just dropped his bag on his desk, slamming against the wood with a muffled thump. He was frowning at the box, watching as Kenny pulled it open and began sifting though the disks. A lot of them were cracked, most of them were scuffed. Some of them were all but in pieces. "What the _fuck_ is Butters going to do with those things anyway?"

"I dunno, some sort of gay collage. He'll artfully arrange them on a canvas, make them look like a set of giant tits, or a flower, or a life-size Honey Boo Boo. You know, the usual pretentious crap."

"Since when was Honey Boo Boo pretentious?"

"Since people began making collages of her out of garbage. There's nothing more pretentious then sticking a shitload of trash on a canvas, sticking a four figure price tag on it, and calling it art. I mean, _I_ could arrange trash on a canvas, it doesn't mean I'm an artist. It just means I like to play with trash."

Kyle just raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of coffee. It wasn't particularly hot anymore, but it was still drinkable. "Art's not about painting flowers and perfecting dramatic chiaroscuro anymore Kenny. Art's about acting edgy and ramping up publicity. It's about selling _yourself_, not a canvas. You could paint the shittist thing known to man, but provided you put the right spin on it, provided you talk it up enough, you'd make millions. I mean, it really is a career opportunity you should look into. You need absolutely no talent whatsoever. All you need is the ability to talk."

Kenny just ignored him. He was staring over Kyle's shoulder, watching Stan lean against Wendy's desk. She was glaring at him with eyes full of murder, glaring at the coffee cup clutched tightly in his hands, glowering at it like it had personally wronged her. She probably had her panties in a twist because Harbucks were harvesting rainforests to produce their stupid paper cups. That seems like the sort of stupid crusade she'd get herself pent up over.

Kyle was frowning slightly at his own cup, narrowing his eyes at the ugly winter pattern. He didn't seem as peeved off at it as Wendy did though. It didn't deeply offend him, he just thought it was ugly. It was ugly. There's only so many ugly little snowman one cup can handle. Kenny just cleared his throat. "So you're driving in with him now, huh? Getting coffee and everything. I bet he even _paid_. How long until you announce your engagement in the local paper? I'm looking forwards to the engagement photo. Make sure you get the ring in the shot, nice and forced. Just like all the royals do."

Kyle didn't look up from his cup. He was too busy staring at the snowmen with a particularly unimpressed look on his face. "Go to hell Kenny."

"But you make such a _lovely_ couple. The whiney pussy and the screechy Jew. It's like some bastardised retelling of _The Owl and the Pussycat_. I can't wait to see your lovely pea-green boat!"

Frowning, Kyle looked up, slamming his cup down on the desk. It was nearly empty, so the slight tapping noise it made was far from impressive. "What's your _problem _with all this anyway?"

Kenny shrugged. "I dunno, it's not that I've got a _problem _with it. I just… I just think there's something weird about it. Weird about the way Stan's acting towards you, all lovey-dovey one minute, ignoring you the next. Weird about the way you've just, I dunno, just _forgiven_ him. After everything that happened, after everything _you_... It's just…" He pulled a face, dropping all four legs of his chair back down on the carpet with a muffled thump. "There's something _weird _about this whole mess fluffball, and for some reason you don't seem to be able to see it."

"There's nothing weird about it. It's not _weird_." Kyle paused for a moment, pressing the lid of his coffee cup against his lower lip. "Well, it's not _that _weird, it's just…"

"Not _that _weird? What do you mean not _that _weird?"

Kyle wrinkled his nose. "He keeps… Like, _hugging_ me and stuff. That bit's a little weird."

"You let him hug you?! Bitch, the last time I tried to give you a hug, you kicked me in the fucking crotch so hard I had to go to hospital!"

"Yeah, well _you_ were fucking naked! You deserved that!"


	15. Inadvertently Huffing Paint Fumes

For the first time since this whole thing started, Stan wasn't lurking about outside Kyle's classroom come the final bell. Kyle wasn't sure if this meant he was now trusted not to run off the second Stan turned his back, if it meant he was now trusted to actually _wait, _as commanded, or if it just meant Stan was running late. He hoped it was the former, but he had a strong suspicion it was the latter.

Nevertheless, if Stan wasn't waiting for him, he might as well go lurk outside Mrs Wenner's history room, waiting for Stan. He might as well turn the tables whilst he had the chance. Shouldering his bag with a slightly violent tug, he crossed his arms across his chest and began to fight his way through the shouting throng of students surging towards the exit, pushing against the flow of bodies like a lonely little salmon fighting a pathetic fight upstream. After accidentally elbowing a freshman in the stomach, and coming precariously close to being brained by a hockey stick, Kyle realised it would have been easier to just stick where he was and wait for Stan there. But he'd started now, and the crowds were thinning out. He might as well just force his way through the last stretch of corridor. He might as well just do it. He was nearly there, after all.

After unceremoniously barging his way through a group of screeching girls (and accidentally stomping on Annie's foot, a move she was less than impressed with), Kyle wound up outside Mrs Wenner's history room. For a second he hesitated. He could hear Stan talking to someone in the room. He placed his hand against the door, about to knock, about to rudely interrupt, but something stopped him. He'd assumed Stan had been talking to Mrs Wenner, but no, that wasn't Mrs Wenner's croaky drawl he could hear. It was someone else, someone younger. It sounded a bit like Wendy. Maybe Bebe. Mrs Wenner had tacked a sheet of paper over the glass door panel (in what Kyle could only assume was a massive breach in safety procedure), so Kyle could be certain. He was pretty sure it was Wendy though. Bebe was rarely ever that shrill.

Bebe was rarely ever this _loud_. She was shouting now, it was definitely Wendy. An angry, angry Wendy. Kyle frowned, tilting his ear towards the door. The corridor emptying now, as the sound of shouting and screeching muted down, as kids began making their way to the busses, or to their cars, or their parents, Kyle began to pick up the conversation though the wood. Now it was quiet, he could hear everything pretty damn clearly.

"I don't _care _what you want to do, or who you hang out with, or how lame you want to act when you think no one's looking. But you have a _reputation _to uphold here. And your reputation directly reflects on m_y _reputation. Think of _me _Stan, think what you're doing to _me_!"

"_It's just Kyle_. He's _just_Kyle."

"It's not _just _Kyle. He's a _loser_ Stanley! He's a fucking loser!" Kyle ridged his nose, looking down at the scuffed linoleum. He could practically hear Stan hesitating.

"I _know_ Wends. I _know _he's a loser, of _course _he is. But-"

He didn't wait to hear what the "but" was. He didn't care what the "but" was. He just pulled his hand away from the door and left. Because Wendy was right. He was a loser, he was a shameless loser. Losers hang around other losers, staying home on Friday nights studying. Losers care about SAT prep class. Losers sew patches onto their duffel coats, losers avoid getting haircuts. Losers collect floppy disks and categorise them. Losers laugh whilst their loser friend goes flashing in the park.

Losers get ignored by members of the football team during school hours.

Losers proved ruinous to precious reputations.

Stan wasn't a loser. Stan was very much not a loser. Kyle very much was.

He decided not to bother waiting for Stan after all. He turned tail, and without a backwards glance, he marched quickly down the corridor. He wasn't entirely sure where he'd intended to go, worming his way quickly through the now empty corridors, but he ended up down the art wing. He wasn't entirely sure he'd intended on going anywhere. The only thing he'd really intended to do was put as much distance between him and Stan and Wendy as he could. Choosing a room at random, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Shutting his eyes, he pressed his back against the door, sliding down the chipped paintwork. He'd not meant to, but he ended up sitting on the floor. The dirty, paint splattered floor. He was going to mess up his coat. He might even stain it. But he didn't care. Enough people in this school called him a loser, enough of the asscocks, the stupid clichéd jocks. Enough people gave him shit as was. He got _enough _of it. He didn't need to hear that kind of crap from his friends too.

Or at least, from someone who'd been playing a very odd game, pretending to be his friend. He didn't know what Stan was, or what Stan had been attempting to do, but friends don't say shit like that. Stan was playing one hell of a fucked up game, and Kyle had been stupid for ever even thinking about getting involved. He'd been through this shit once before already. He should have learnt his lesson the first time round.

The smell of stale paint, the solvents and turpentine, it beginning to make him feel dizzy. He didn't know how Butters could stand it. Maybe they opened a window during class. Maybe you grew an immunity.

Maybe you didn't care. Maybe if you cared about canvases and paint and art, maybe if that was your _thing_, maybe if you were like Butters, maybe you worked though the fumes. Maybe it was worth the headache. Maybe it was worth it. Maybe that was why Butters was always so _happy_. Maybe he just spent his life inadvertently huffing paint fumes.

He blinked his eyes open. There was a pile of floppy disks on one of the tables, a box full of them. Some of them had been broken, broken even further, deliberately cracked, pulled apart. His disks. His neat little handwriting. His obsessive need to chronolog the place found, the date found, the previous owner. His obsessive need to write down the history of a broken disk that didn't even work. It didn't matter, of course it didn't matter. It had never mattered. They were just floppy disks. An outdated medium, forgotten data. Worthless data. Things aren't forgotten without good reason.

They were junk. It was all just _junk_. Kyle had no idea why he even bothered trying to salvage junk.

It was all just junk.

Rubbing his face, he checked his watch. The bus was long gone by now. Nearly everybody would be long gone by now. He'd been hiding here longer then he'd intended to. Exhaling slightly, he dug about his duffel coat pocket, pulling out his phone. Stan had tried to call him. A couple of times, actually. A couple of texts, too. He ignored that. He deleted them unread. He supposed he could call his mother, but he couldn't really face playing Spanish Inquisition over why he missed the bus. Why Stan wasn't dropping him back off.

Besides, she was probably busy ferrying Ike about. Or maybe she was absent, staging yet another a protest. Her usual shit.

Biting his lip, Kyle tapped open his phonebook. He answered on the third ring.

"Hey Kenny? Can you come pick me up?"

"What? _Why_?! I'm nearly _back_!"

Kyle wasn't sure if Kenny had a deathwish or what, answering his phone whist driving that pile of rusty scrap he tried to pass off as a truck. "I… I missed the bus. I'm sort of stuck here, and I don't really want to call my mom. I just-I just don't want nagging right now."

"I thought Stan was driving you back? Since you two are all Super Ass-Rammer-ish again."

Kyle hesitated. Not long, he caught himself before it got too long, but Kenny still heard. He still knew what it meant. Kyle tried to cover the pause by clearing his throat. "No… No that's not happening. I…I… I'm round back in the art block."

"I told you so."

Kyle smiled, dropping his chin to his chest. Kenny hung up, saving him from having to snipe back a reply.

Kenny smiled, serene and placid, changing gears without even bothering to check the mirrors. Kyle gripped the edge of the seat, but he didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself to say anything.

But then, he didn't need to.

"I warned you, fluffadile. I _fucking_ warned you. But no, you're _always_ right. You _always_ know best."

Kyle bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. He didn't want to play this game. Not right now. Not today.

Kenny didn't push it. Once glance at Kyle's face told him not too. He just reached across, and gripped Kyle's shoulder. Gentle but firm. Comforting and reassuring. Kyle didn't even care that Kenny had taken his hand off the wheel. He didn't even care that he was now driving the death-trap he called a truck one handed. He didn't really care that that one hand wasn't even in the right position. He didn't care about anything really, not right now. Not when he was biting the inside of his cheek so hard he could taste blood.

"Just don't let it get to you fluffy. Not this time. Not… Not _again_."

* * *

A/N - Stan you willy.

Guest: It's not intentional, per se, it's more a mix of my writing style (which has always been a bit _Much Ado About Pointlessness_, even at the best of times) and the fact that I post segments as I finish them. I could store up segments and make proper length chapters, but that comes with a risk, as when I have time to dwell on what I've written, I usually decide I hate it/it's stupid/ohgodwhyI'mgoingtoslammyfaceagainstthi swall it never sees the light of day. This story would most def have been a case of that were it not a post-as-you-go, and did I not have a compulsion to finish anything I start. But hey, plotstuff actually happening now (this is as close to plotstuff as it gets), so less of the pointless waffle, more of the characters doing stuff.


	16. Another Fucking Ice Crystal

It was freezing. It was dark, it was cold. It was just miserable. Kyle was so sick of it always being so cold. He was sick of the snow that never, ever seemed to go away. He was sick of the fleeting summers, the solitary week of sunshine surrounded by snow and cold, darkness and ice. He was sick of the wind, the too-bright winter sun. He was sick of the cows and the mountains. He was sick of the grey, churned up slush that permanently coated the pavements, the patches of slick black ice that stuck to the road. He was sick of this now, of this town, of all the stupidity and mobs. Of the lies. He was going to work damn hard prepping for the SATS. He was going to take on a metric ton of extra-curricular shit. He was going to be prefect, the perfect little applicant. He was going to make his mother proud. He was going to apply to Caltech, he was going to get in.

He was going to leave this town, these people, all this bullshit behind. He was going to go to California, and that would be it. He'd stay there, in the sun, the sand, he'd stay in the warm. The palm trees and convertibles. He'd never have to see snow again. For as long as he lived, he'd never have to see another fucking ice crystal. All of this would just become a bad dream.

All of it would just fade away, it'd become history. A floppy disk. Outdated memories on an outdated media. Kyle wouldn't try to save those ones. He'd willingly forget them, forget all this. He'd love nothing more than to forget it all.

Exhaling, Kyle leant across his desk, resting his chin on the cold, scratched wood. He was staring at a book, at a random page. He'd been trying to read it, but the words were going straight through him, in one ear and out the other one. He was thinking too much for the neat typeface to be anything more than letters on a page.

He should have just gone to Kenny's this morning. He should have told his mom he was going to catch the bus, he should have lied to her, walked out the door, and gone to Kenny's. He'd take the near-death experience, the terrifying prospect of riding through the blizzard and ice in his joke of a truck, he'd take all that over this. Over the silence, the empty homeroom. Over the minutes he was spending staring at the same page, wallowing in self-pity.

He'd had enough misery, enough self-pity. He'd had enough of it all. He wasn't going to do that again, spend years sulking because the kid who'd been his best friend, once upon a time in a never-ending bad dream had tuned out to be a giant douche. He was over it. This time, he'd just work.

Because Kenny was right. For once in his life, Kenny was actually right. He wasn't going to let this get to him, not again. He'd been there and worn that t-shirt. He'd just ignore it, he'd work. Once he was in California, he'd never have to think of that kid he'd used to know, about the shit they'd used to do. He'd never have to think about any of this ever again. It'd be nothing more than outdated memories. A couple of broken floppy disks in a box of junk. Snow in the wind.

"Hey, where were you yesterday? Why didn't you wait for me?"

Kyle didn't look up from his book. He still wasn't reading it, he was just holding it there as a deterrent. Occasionally he'd turn a page, pretending like he was enthralled by the smudged typography. Most of the time he just stared at the words until they became illegible smudges migrating across the paper. Fussy black caterpillars listing to the left.

"I caught the bus." A lie was easier than the truth.

"What, why?! I'll drive you. I told you I'd drive you. How many times have I said I'll drive you?!"

He'd known Stan was going to do this, turn up early. Corner him in homeroom. He should have gone somewhere else. The library. The courtyard. A random corridor. He didn't care. He really should have just gone to Kenny's.

"I'd rather catch the bus."

"You're being stupid Ky, I-"

"Kyle."

"What?"

Kyle clenched his fingers, digging his nails into the smooth book cover, the pulp of the paper. The words got even blurrier. "It's Kyle. It's always been Kyle. No one has _ever_ called me Ky, so just stop it!"

Stan looked away, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Right, yeah. Sorry. Sorry Kyle. Sorry _fluffy._ Sorry _whatever the fuck_ you want to be called. But you're being stupid. I'll drive you. Willingly. _Happily_."

Kyle looked up, over his book, through the wiry mess of hair. He was just going to cut it himself when he got home, hack it all off. He didn't give a fuck anymore. "I guess that's just what us _losers_ do, huh Stanley? We take the bus. You wouldn't want to go risking your _reputation_ by being seen with me now, would you? Dear God, just think about your poor little _girlfriend_!"

Stan took a step back. Kyle assumed he was moving out of kicking range. He was mildly insulted Stan thought he gave enough of a shit to want to kick him. "I-I guess you-"

"Yeah, _I guess I did_."

"Look, Kyle, just… Just let me explain, yeah? It's not what you think."

"How the fuck do you know what I think?"

"Look, I-I didn't actually _mean_ it!"

"Then why did you say it?"

"I-I… I-"

Kyle groaned, shutting his book. "You can fuck about all you want Stan, you can play whatever stupid game you're playing, you can do all that and more. But don't think you can do it with me. Not _again_. I'm not going to be lied to. I'm not going to be your _secret weekend friend._ We're not fucking _kids,_ not anymore. I'm not some fucking secret."

"But… But…" Stan was struggling to find the argument he was looking for. Or he was struggling to vocalise the one he had. Kyle didn't know. He didn't care. He was on his feet, ramming his book back into his bag. Stan eventually managed to choke out a rather feeble: "But we still have to do the report."

Kyle smiled. Wry and sarcastic. And sad. He tired to hide it, ignore it, deny it, _whatever_, but he couldn't. Not completely. He looked sad. He was sad. But he was angry too. Angrier then he'd realised. Sadness really was nothing when compared to the righteous anger of a wronged Jew. He'd learned that much from his mother.

"But that the very best thing about being paired with a _loser_ like me; I do all the work, you just have to show up to the class!"

"Nuh, I'm going to do my share. I'm-"

"Just _don't_, Stan."

"But-"

"_Don't_."

"But-"

"Just… _Just leave me alone_! Just leave me alone!"

"But-"

Stan wasn't going to leave him alone. So Kyle just left. He swung his bag over his shoulder, gripped his coat shut across his chest, and stormed out of homeroom.

* * *

A/N - Apologies for the delay. I do have an excuse though. It involves winter and central heating, dry fingertips, cracked skin, blood and pain. But hopefully it's all good now, so hey ho.


	17. How Fucking Flattering

Kyle was going to kill Kenny. He'd had to put up with a lot of shit from him, a lot of flashing and perversion, a lot of paint huffing and cheesing, too many yard sales and badly thought out plans, too many close calls and near escapes. But he'd stuck with it, he'd put up with them. He'd stuck by Kenny's side, he'd always been there. They'd always been together. But today, the day when having Kenny around _might actually_ be sort of nice, he wasn't here. He'd never shown up. He'd decided to spend the day skipping. Kyle glared down at his lunch. No doubt he was in the park somewhere, huffing paint or stripping. Maybe he was rifling through the trash again, like some sort of oversized racoon. He wouldn't have minded so much if Kenny had told him, let him know. Let him know that he had to face this day alone.

Hell, had Kenny told him, he'd probably have joined him. Paint huffing, stripping. Trash raiding. Anything would have been better than this. Sitting on his own in the middle of the crowded canteen, clutching a cheeseburger he really didn't want to eat. Staring blankly at the table top. Feeling sad. Being _pathetic_.

He was so sick of feeling pathetic.

Well, not quite on his own, but neat as damnit. On the opposite end of the table, Cartman was inhaling his mountain of food. Kyle just glowered at him. If Cartman wanted to sit on their table, he had to sit as far away from Kyle as physically possible. He had to mind his own business, and he had to keep his toxic mouth clamped shut. If he broke either of these rules, Kyle would not hesitate to kick him _square in the nuts_. And today, today he was just hoping for an excuse.

Still, Kyle didn't really count sitting near each other as sitting together. The only thing more pathetic then sitting on his own was sitting with _Cartman_, after all.

Kyle was so absorbed with admiring his unappetising cheeseburger, he started slightly when Stan dropped himself down on the bench opposite, leaning across the table imploringly. Kyle turned his face away, staring pointedly at the poster of the stupid dancing tomato. He was going to stab that tomato one day, stab it in the eye with one of the canteens ancient, blunt knives.

"Listen, Kyle I-"

Kyle kept his eyes glued on the poster, swallowing his half-chewed mouthful of cheeseburger with a vaguely painful gulp. "Fuck Stan. I'll e-mail you it when I'm _done_, don't _hassle_ me."

Stan frowned. "What?"

"_The report_. I'll e-mail it to you when I'm finished."

"No, it's not about-"

"I'll do it over the weekend or something. I'll do it when I have _time_!"

"It's not-"

"I have a life too you know. As hard as it may be to believe, even us _losers_ have fun sometimes."

"_No_! Dude, _shut up _yeah? I just wanted to say I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry, okay? I don't want you to be my secret weekend friend. I just want you to be my _friend_! My regular, all the time friend."

Kyle blinked at him, tightening his grip on his cheeseburger, clenching his fingers. "Really?! You're willing to be seen with me?! In public! Wow! How fucking _flattering_!"

He was crushing his burger, crushing the bun. He was relatively certain he was destroying it, that his fingers were pressing holes through the bread, he was relatively certain it was disintegrating, collapsing in on itself like a neutron star, but he didn't care. He wasn't hungry. He didn't want it anymore. He didn't want Stan to be here anymore.

No. He didn't care where Stan was. _He _didn't want to be here anymore.

"There's no need to be snarky. I'm _sorry_. I'm fucking _sorry_."

"_I don't care_." Kyle sighed, dropping the mangled mess that had once been a cheeseburger onto his plate, wiping his hands on a napkin. "Just leave me _alone_ Stan. Just leave it _all_ alone!"

"Hey flufflepuff!" Kenny grinned, dropping down heavily on the bench next to him, purposefully knocking Kyle's shoulder. Kyle blinked, watching as Kenny threw down a handful of brightly coloured, plastic disks. Neon floppy disks. Kenny had brought him a stack of floppy disks. Smiling slightly, Kyle reached out, scooping them towards him.

"Awesome dude. Where did you get them?"

"Some woman dropped off a truck full of shit. I found them when we were sifting through it all. She was chucking out a whole load of nice crap dude. Someone must have died or divorced or whatever. It was brilliant."

"Sweet."

"I know right? You should see what else I managed to get. She was dumping clothes and everything."

On the other side of the table, Stan crossed his arms. He was staring at the disks with a furrowed brow. "You brought him _garbage_?"

Kenny deadpanned him a look. "No, I brought him something I _found _in the garbage."

"Seriously, you brought him _trash_?"

"I'll bring my _best friend _whatever the fuck I want, dude."

Kyle was busy neatly stacking his newly gifted floppy disks. At least now he had something to look forward too. At least now he had a _distraction_. "Just because _you_ think something's _worthless_ doesn't mean it is, Stan."

"That's not what I-"

Kenny just waved him quiet. "Dude, just fuck off back to your girlfriend or something."

Stan's face darkened. "She's not my girlfriend."

Kenny just rolled his eyes. "Like I _care_. Fuck off back to your ex then. In the few seconds it takes you to walk over there, you'll probably be back together anyway."

From across the table, Cartman snorted. He'd been watching the events unfold gleefully, his piggy eyes narrowed with joy. Anything that upset Kyle pleased him. A lot of things ended up pleasing him. "In the few seconds it takes him to walk back over there, they'll have gotten back together, she'll have cheated, they'll have broken back up, he'll have forgiven her, they'll have got back together again, had another argument, and broken back up. They'll be back at the beginning by the time he sits down. Off again on again, like a fucking light switch."

"_Whatever_. Call me later Kyle. We'll-"

"I'm not gonna call you."

"Just _call me_ Kyle."

"No."

"_Just do it_,_ Kyle_!"

He left before Kyle had a chance to retaliate, his hands raised in some obtuse, pleading surrender.

Kenny quirked an eyebrow. "You gonna call him?"

"Fuck no."

"Attaboy fluffpuffpompom."

"_Fluffpuffpompom_?!"

"My new favourite."

"I fucking hate you Kenny. _Flufflepuff_ was better."


	18. Dust and Words and Silence

Kyle didn't call him. He pointedly didn't call him. It didn't stop Stan from calling _him _though. Again and again until Kyle turned off his phone. Then he tried calling the landline. Kyle's mother screamed up at him to come downstairs and talk to Stan. Kyle screamed down that he didn't want to talk to Stan. His mother screamed at him not to be stupid, Stanley was such a nice boy, and Kyle needed come down to speak to him. Kyle screamed down that he was too busy for this. His mother screamed up that he wasn't to take that tone with her. After a good ten minutes this mutual screaming, Stan realised that involving Kyle's mother probably wasn't the best way to get Kyle to forgive him. In fact, involving Kyle's mother was probably a good way to get Kyle even angrier. Sheepishly, he told Mrs Broflovski that he'd try calling back later, when Kyle wasn't so busy.

He never did. Even Stan wasn't stupid enough to make that mistake twice.

Not that it mattered. Kyle had his floppy disks to distract him. Simon Archer's floppy disks, as it turned out. He had no idea who Simon Archer is (or was, if Kenny's hunch was right) but that didn't matter. Kyle liked him anyway. Simon Archer was an entrepreneur. Or Simon Archer was trying to be an entrepreneur, at any rate. His floppies were all neatly organised, his files were all properly named. No random string of letters and numbers, just nice, short descriptions. There were no tacky, naked women, no amateur attempts at playboy photography, which Kyle was sure would disappoint Kenny. Unless Kenny had already taken those ones out for himself, which was really quite possible. He probably went through them before he passed them on. These were probably the ones he considered too boring for himself. The ones he knew Kyle would like. The business reports, the presentations of profit maximisation, the never-ending lists of sales figures, the advertising mock-ups. The innovative ideas for promotional events. No bad ideas, either. Quite good ones. All created for some stereotypical shampoo range that was supposed to make your hair smell like a "meadow". Some weird range Kyle had never even heard of.

Everything was bright and cheery, everything was pink and flowery. Everything was happy and light and carefree. Everything but the sales figures. The sales figures were bleak, and they just seemed to get bleaker. Dwindling down until they stopped altogether, dwindling down until everything stopped altogether. It turns out no matter how hard Simon Archer tried to sell his shampoo, nobody bought it. It never took off. And Kyle wasn't all too sure why.

Simon Archer had done everything right. His overheads were low. He'd priced it reasonably, he'd given the shops a big enough margin. He'd run promotions and offers, he'd set introductory prices. Hell, he'd even started giving it away in the hopes of boosting sales. Everything was standard. Everything was right. Everything was _normal_.

But then, maybe that was the problem. Maybe he just made the fatal mistake of assuming South Park was normal. His happy pink flowery shampoo might have sold elsewhere, in other nice, normal towns. Maybe if he'd taken it to Denver, maybe if he'd taken it even further, maybe then it would have taken off. Normal stereotypical women might have queued up round the block to buy his normal stereotypical shampoo. But no, not here. Nothing was normal or stereotypical here.

Kyle smiled, ejecting the disk. He'd backed up all of Simon Archer's files. He'd labelled them all in his neat, anal way. He'd file these bright little disks away in one of his endless boxes. And that would be that.

Kyle bit the inside of his cheek. He was running his thumb across the metal shutter, pulling it back to expose the thin, black, strip of disk. The neon plastic was slightly translucent, he could see the black shadow of the disk underneath its plastic cover, the dark shadow of the rivets. He'd always liked floppy disks. It was a shame they'd been left behind. They were so much prettier than CD-ROMs.

But then, he'd always liked floppy disks. He used to help the computer illiterate librarian in middle school. He used to sit behind the checkout desk after school, during lunch hour, he sat there playing with the date stamp. Occasionally scanning out a book. Usually for Butters; he was the only one who ever really used to use the library. Reading was not a big vocation amongst the South Park kids. Kyle spent most of his time doing other stuff. He'd fix the computers when it broke, he'd help reorganise the books. He'd hide in the warm and the dust, hide away whilst Stan was off playing football or baseball or sarcastaball or whatever practice was scheduled for that day. He'd hide away, just waiting for Stan to finish. In the dusky sunlight and musty warmth. That weird library atmosphere. Nothing ever felt quite like a library. That weird mix of dust and words and silence.

She used to give him floppies, the librarian. As a thank you. Not old ones, not ones full of reports and presentations and smutty old photos. New ones. Blank ones. The ones from the libraries stationary kitty. Those ones had been colourful too. Not as fancy as Simon Archer's ones, not translucent neon. They were just neat blocks of bright colours. Stupid, bright plastic colours. Oranges, yellows, greens, blues, red. Neat and square, bright as poster paint, with their little silver accents. She let him have as many as he wanted. She'd have let him take them all, had he desired.

He remembered Stan, back when Stan still talked to him. Back before all that shit had gone down. He remembered Stan standing behind him, behind his chair, leaning over him. He remembered Stan's hand on the back of his head, Stan's fingers knotted into his hair. He remembered the way his hair used to brush against Stan's shirt. The inane, stupid things they used to talk about

He remembered Stan's forearms, the downy dark hair heralding the start of puberty. It'd been like having a particularly persistent shadow, the way Stan used to stand there. He'd been able to rely on Stan back then. He'd trusted him.

Kyle threw the disk to his left. It missed the box, clattering off the edge, bouncing across the carpet. Kenny was right; he should never have let himself be suckered back in. He should have learnt his lesson after the first time.

He was stupid to have made the same mistake twice.


	19. Heavy Dreamless Bliss

"Kyle, come downstairs."

Kyle blinked. He'd been asleep, blissfully asleep. Fully clothed and slumped against his computer desk, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. It was an awkward sleep, but sleep was still sleep. Heavy, thick and dreamless. Just the way he liked it. Maybe if he ignored the shrill voice and the hand shaking his shoulder, he'd fall back asleep again. Maybe of he just pretended he was still asleep, she'd give up and go.

Or maybe not. The shaking was becoming more and more intense. If she shook him any harder, she'd probably shake him right off his seat. He doubted he could continue pretending he was asleep once she'd sent him crashing to the floor. "Kyle! Hurry up and come downstairs."

Kyle begrudgingly opened his eyes. "_Why_?"

"Stanley's here. He's brought you something for your _report_.."

"What?"

"Stanley's _here_. Come on Kyle, hurry up and _come downstairs_."

Kyle groaned, shutting his eyes and driving his face back into his elbow crook. "Tell him to go away. I'll see him tomorrow at school."

"Kyle! Stop it! What is _wrong_ with you?! Just come downstairs before I _drag _you down!"

"Oh _fine_!" He staggered to his feet, squinting against the light. His legs were still numb with sleep. Murmuring some particularity angry curses under his breath, he rubbed his eyes. His mother just frowned at him, watching him stagger to the door.

Stan was standing on the doormat, looking sheepish. Kyle just glowered at him, awkwardly stomping down the stairs, awkwardly ramming his feet into his boots. If his mother thought they'd gone out, she wouldn't try to eavesdrop. If he didn't invite Stan in, he might get the message and fuck off sooner. "Come on. We'll talk _outside_."

Stan just nodded, following Kyle out onto the porch. It was an awful night, dark and dank, bitterly cold, foggy and windy. The florescent glow from the porch light didn't help. It just cast an unflattering, sickly shadow across everything. Occasionally a heavy, clumpy snowflake would drift down from the sky. It looked more like a hunk of ash then snow. Maybe it was a hunk of ash. Maybe there was some crazy happening on the other side of town. Maybe, _hopefully_, this weeks crazy would have nothing to do with him. Stan cleared his throat. He was gripping a shoe box, pressing it against his chest. Kyle frowned, pulling the door shut behind him. "Thank you for setting the angry Jewish hobbit on me Stanley. There's nothing I like more than being shouted out by my _mother_."

Stan swallowed, tensing his fingers against the box, gripping it slightly too tightly. He was staring adamantly at the floor, absently shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't want to get her involved. But it was the only way to get you to come see me. I needed to… I brought you something. A sorry-I'm-I'm sorry. I brought you a gift."

Kyle glared at the box, crossing his arms across his chest, squaring his stance against the door frame. "I don't want a pair of _cleats_ Stan. I already have a pair I don't wear. _Jesus Christ_."

"No, I know. The cleats are mine, I just needed a box. I brought you something better. I brought you something you _want_. Well, I hope I do, anyway."

Kyle pulled a face. "It's not alive, is it? You've not brought me a fucking puppy or something _stupid_, have you? My mom'll go ballistic."

"No, dude, just, just here-" He was pushing the box towards him, pushing it against his forearms. Kyle sighed, uncrossing his arms, taking the box. Maybe if he humoured Stan, he'd hurry up and leave. Then he could slink back upstairs, he could try regain his heavy dreamless bliss. Once Stan had fucked off, his mother might actually leave him alone and let him _sleep_.

Kyle rested the box on one arm, wrestling open the lid. For a second he just blinked, biting the inside of his cheek. "You brought me floppies?"

"Yeah. You seemed to like the ones Kenny got you."

"Well that's… That's a _lot_ of fucking floppies. Where… Where in God's name did you find them all?"

Stan shrugged. "I just looked all over. Most of them are from my dad's office. That place hasn't been cleaned since the eighties. I collected all the ones we had lying round the house. I asked around. I just… I'm just sorry."

"I really don't know what to say."

"I know. I… I…" He was looking to say something. He just couldn't find the words. Kyle blinked, watching him struggle. Eventually he just gave up. Clearing his throat, Stan just shrugged. "What do you do with them anyway?

"I just like… I just like seeing what's on them, I guess."

Stan blinked, and frowned. "What?"

Kyle smiled softly, gently shaking the box of disks. The plastic cases clacked against each other. They were junk, but they were his junk. "People forget about them, about floppy disks. They forget about all the stuff they saved on them. I just like… I just like knowing all that shit won't all be forgotten. That things aren't ever forgotten."

Frowning, Stan took a step back. "Wait, wait wait. _What_?!"

"What do you mean what?"

Exhaling, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You… You _snoop_ through them? Have I just… _Facilitated_ your snooping with a box of my old floppy disks?!"

"Well, yeah. What on Earth did you think I did with them?"

"I thought you took them apart or something! Like, used them for scrap or parts or whatever! I didn't think you-you went _through_ them! Holy Christ, you're as nosey as your fucking _mother_."

Kyle recoiled slightly. "Floppies don't really have any parts, Stan. It's just a disk, some plastic and a little bit of metal. They're pretty worthless really."

"Look, just-just give me the disks back."

"What, _no_!

"I don't want them _all_ back! Just let me take _my_ ones back!"

"Why?!"

"Because… Because…" Stan ran his hand though his hair, cursing under his breath. "Because I don't know what's _on_ them, Kyle!

Kyle narrowed his eyes, his fingers tightening protectively around the box. "Have… Have you just gifted me nudes of yourself or something?"

"Dude! _No_! I haven't used a floppy in, like, five years or something! I just… I just-I… I used to save my _journals_ on those things!"

Kyle deadpanned him a look. "You used to save your journal on floppy disks? Are you seriously that much of a _woman_?"

"I was, like, _twelve_! I thought I was being cool or something!"

"God. And you called _me_ a loser."

"I _am_ sorry about that. I didn't mean it, of course I didn't. You're not a loser. You're _Kyle_, you're _my_ Kyle. I just… I just wanted Wendy to shut up. Now please?" He held out his hands. "Please give me the box back."

"But…" Kyle was gripping the box against his chest, clutching it tightly, shielding it from Stan. He'd never had so many new floppies at the same time before. He was looking forward to them. He was loathed to lose them. Especially so soon. "But you gave them to me. As an apology. A sorry."

"God, don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the worst person in the world or something!"

"Well you did pretend to be my friend whist ignoring me in school so people didn't think you were uncool. And you did call me a loser to your whore of a girlfriend. You did turn up here despite me telling you _again and again _to leave me alone. And now you're trying to _repossess your sorry_. You're not really looking so great right now."

"_It's not like that_. Come on Kyle!"

"It's _exactly_ like that."

"I'm not trying to _repossess_ my sorry, I just need to borrow my disks back, just for a little bit. Then you can have them all back again."

"I won't go through your wangsty tweenage journals Stan!

"But-"

Kyle was sick of this now, he was sick of all this stupidity, all these games. He was sick of all the _crazy_. He'd had enough of it from the town, he didn't need Stan turning up in his doorstep with boxes more batshit. He'd had enough now. He was _done_. Rolling his eyes, he rammed the box against Stan's chest.

"Fine, just take them! Just take them and _fuck off_."

Stan grappled with the box, clutching it awkwardly against his shirt. "Look, I'm sorry. Just come on a drive with me, okay? Just-"

Kyle slammed the door in his face.


	20. With a Bang

"I genuinely hate you Token. And I'm not just saying that, I mean it. I _really fucking hate you_."

Frowning, Token put his pen down, resting his elbows on the desk. Across the room, Stan was hunched over his desk, his eyes pointedly glued to his notebook. Pointedly not looking at Kyle. They were supposed to be copying terminology down from the board, neatly listing key terms and brief definitions, keeping busy whilst Mr Harris caught up on his marking. There was a hum of disinterested chatter whilst people slowly listed them down. Kyle wasn't bothering, he knew it all already. He'd known it all for a very long time. He may be a loser, but not even he was lame enough to waste his time making lists of words he already knew. No matter how many times Mr Harris told him to.

Token cleared his throat. "Is there a reason for that, or have you just decided to take up racism in your spare time? You really need to stop sitting with Cartman."

"Why couldn't you have just done the fucking business report with _Stan_?! Why'd you have to go crying to Mr Harris asking for a change?" Kyle groaned, resting his forehead on the desk. "Why couldn't you have just shut up and got on with it? Now he won't leave me alone. And it's all your fault"

Token frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"He keeps bothering me. He keeps showing up and acting weird. I swear to God it's driving me _crazy_."

"Huh, that's funny. When I was paired with him last time, he just fucked off and left me to it. He left me to write it all. He's a dick like that."

"He's a dick in a _lot_ of ways."

Token shrugged. "You're hardly the bounciest bunny in the field Kyle. But still, I don't know why you're blaming me for this."

Kyle glared at the sleeve of his coat. It was beginning to go tatty with wear. The constant friction from the desktops, from his face, his arms, his bag, from _everything_, it was going to wear it through. "You're the one who went whining to Mr Harris saying you need to switch. Why didn't you let me just do the report with Craig?!"

"Look, I really have no idea what you're talking about. I didn't ask Mr Harris to swap. I was fine. It was Stan. He didn't want to work with me because this one time in fourth grade I made out with his girlfriend or ex-girlfriend or sister or his dog or his whore or his whatever, I don't even know. He got his panties all in a twist about it. Besides," Token bit the inside of his cheek, glaring across the room. Craig was sitting next to Tweek, lounging back on his chair with a smirk plastered across his face. "Working with Craig is hardly an _improvement_. I invited him round yesterday to work on it. He did sweet fuck all to help. Spent the entire time glued to the Gamesphere. Getting way too into _Medal of Honor_. Cheering at the kills. Which was kind of creepy, considering he was playing as Al-Qaeda."

Kyle frowned, sitting up. "What?"

"Yeah, I know. Sometimes I think we should be worried about him."

"No, no, what did you say about Stan?!"

Token blinked slightly, before shrugging. "I didn't ask to swap. He did. He's the one who was getting his panties twisted, not me."

"What?"

"Still, I don't see why you're getting wound up. You always end up writing the thing, regardless of who you're paired with. At least Stan's actually making a bit of an effort to do his share. That's _far_ more than I can say about Craig."

"You didn't ask to swap?"

"No. It was all Stan."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Oh my God. That bastard."

"What?"

Kyle didn't answer him. Instead, he rammed his hand into the air, pushed his chair back and excused himself. He didn't wait for Mr Harris to give him permission; he just stormed straight out the door.

He stormed to the bathroom, slamming the stall door shut behind him. Kicking the thin flat pack wall so hard it shook the door hinges, pressing his face into the sleeve of his coat. He was angry, so angry. He had no idea what Stan was playing at, he had no idea what Stan was trying to do. All he knew what that he was sick of it, he was sick of all the _lies_, the two-facing, he was sick of the stupid games Stan was playing. He was sick of being played for an idiot.

He was sick of not knowing, not knowing what Stan was trying to do, not knowing _why_. Not knowing just what the hell was going on, why it involved him. Why Stan wouldn't just _leave well enough alone_. Why Stan just wouldn't stop _lying_. He was sick of it. Because it wasn't funny, being fucked about with. Being screwed over by Stan had hurt enough the first time, he had no idea why Stan wanted to open all these wounds again.

Kyle kicked open the stall door. So hard it ricochet against the wall with a bang. Stan was waiting for him, leaning awkwardly against the sink.

"Oh God, not this shit again! What are you, _ten_?!"

"I just-"

"What the fuck are you playing at Stan?! Is this all just some _hilarious _game you're playing, pretending to be my friend, doing all this _crazy fucking shit_?! Asking Token to swap, telling me it was on _him_?! The diner, the driving, all the shit you keep on saying, _the fucking floppy disks_, is this all some big joke to you?! All the lies?! Because it's not funny Stan, not to me, not to _anyone_! Just leave me _alone_!"

"Kyle, no, it's not-"

"_Leave me alone_! Why won't you just _leave me alone_?!"

"It's not like that! Kyle, no, please-"

Kyle made to leave, to barge past Stan, storm out the door, but Stan stopped him. Or tried to, at any rate. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Kyle's coat. So Kyle swung round and punched him in the face.

* * *

A/N – Sorry for the delay. Classes started back up again, and I have no idea what I'm doing.


	21. Snow and Silence

"I can't believe you just hit me." Stan was pressing the back of his hand to the side of his face, over the faint red mark. He was looking at Kyle with wide, shocked eyes. "That actually hurt."

Kyle just stood there, blinking. Part of him wanted to leave, storm out the door, storm back to class, part of him thought Stan deserved it. The lies and the games, all his bullshit, part of him thought Stan deserved a good punch in the face. Part of him thought he deserved a whole lot more. But there was another part of him, a less angry part, a concerned part. A part that was actually slightly shocked. A part that didn't want to leave, that kept him standing in the bathroom. A part that couldn't quite believe he'd just hit Stan either. It'd been such a long time since he last took a swing at Stan.

Awkwardly, Kyle just stood there, watching Stan press his hand to his face. He was halfway between the door and Stan, he could go either way. He could leave, if he just turned around. He had no idea what to do. He had no idea if he should reach out to Stan, if he should apologise for hitting him. Or if he should just leave. It would be the end of it, the end of this all. He'd end it, not with a bang or a whimper, but with a punch. He had no idea, so he just stood there watching.

Watching whilst Stan made the decision for him.

"C'mon." This time Stan gripped Kyle's wrist, pulling him towards the door. Kyle dug his heels in, trying to pull his arm free.

"Get off me!"

"Nope."

"I'll hit you again."

"No you won't."

"Yeah, I will."

"You won't."

"I fucking will."

"Then hey, just do it. I won't let go though, not this time. Hit me as much as you want." He pulled Kyle out the bathroom, towards the art block. "I'm not going to let this go, not like that. I'm not going to let you walk away/"

Kyle was still trying to pull his wrist free, still pulling back. Pulling away from Stan. "Where are we going?"

"For a drive."

"Fuck Stan, just _get off_ me! I left all my stuff in Economics."

"So? So did I. Butters'll get it for us."

"Let me go get it myself!"

"No."

Kyle made a valiant effort to wrench his wrist free, he gave it a violent tug. It didn't work, Stan just gripped on tighter. "_Why_?"

"Because I'm not stupid. If I let you go, you'll just run off again. You'll disappear, like you always do. You'll tell me you won't, but you will. I'm not letting you disappear this time, not until you let me _explain_."

"I don't want your explanations Stan! I just want you to _leave me alone_!"

Stan stopped. They were standing in the deserted carpark, surrounded by snow and silence. "I'm not going to leave you alone. Not now, not _ever_. Not until… Not until you let me _explain_. Not until you listen to me. Once I've done that, then I'll leave you alone. Just _listen _to me, then you never have to talk to me again, okay? Just listen to me, just this once. Just let me explain."

Kyle just stared at him. He'd stopped trying to wrench his arm free, he'd stopped trying to wriggle away. Every time he pulled, Stan just tightened his grip. It was beginning to hurt. "I've had enough Stan. I don't want to hear any more of your _lies_. I'm sick of your bullshit games!"

"No more lies, no more bullshit. I'll tell you the truth, if that's what you want."

"I don't believe you."

"I promise you. I swear it on my dog. I'll tell you the truth."

For a second Kyle just scowled at him. Then in one quick, sudden movement, he yanked his wrist out of Stan's grasp. Stan let him go this time, watching him.

"Why'd you go whining to Mr Harris? Why did you lie to me and tell me it was Token?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you. I really wanted to talk to you. Because I knew you'd be angry if you knew I did it. Because I wanted to talk to you, but I wanted it to look like an accident. I wanted an excuse."

"Why though? Why not just talk to me? Why go through all these stupid, convoluted plans when you could have just talked to me? Why be such a pussy?"

Stan shrugged, looking over his shoulder, swallowing slightly. "Because I was scared, I guess. I wanted an excuse so… So you _had _to talk to me. You wouldn't just tell me to fuck off, not if I had an excuse."

"Why did you only talk to me when we were alone? Why did you keep on ignoring me during lunch?"

"I didn't want people to know. I… I didn't want it to be a big deal. I just… I just wanted to talk to you. I didn't want Wendy to know, or Craig to, or anybody. I just wanted it to be… I don't know, _a thing_. An episode or whatever. The latest little South Park drama. I just didn't want it to be anyone else's business. I wanted _you_. On your own. Like we used to when we were kids."

"Why… Why did you call me a loser?"

"I wanted Wendy to shut up. She shuts up when she hears what she wants to. I didn't want her knowing. I didn't mean it. You're not a loser."

Kyle quirked an eyebrow. "You said you were going to tell the truth."

"I am telling the truth."

"You're not. You're telling me what you think I want to hear. I am a loser. I know I'm a loser. I collect floppy disks and I like doing my homework. My best friend is Kenny. I know damn well I'm a loser."

"You're not a loser. You _are_ uncool. But you're the _right_ sort of uncool. It's like, you don't even try to be cool. Not even a little bit. It goes back round again and becomes cool. Like an ugly Christmas jumper or horn-rimmed glasses. You're like, an accidental hipster, you know?"

Kyle snorted. "I'm nowhere near tall enough to be a hipster."

"You're a _perfect_ hipster. You're… Perfect."

Biting his lip, Kyle crossed his arms. He didn't look at Stan, not this time. "Why did you tell me to fuck off and die when we were thirteen?"

"Because I was scared. I was… Because…" Shaking his head, Stan smiled. Sadly. It looked like he was on the verge of tears, or about to laugh. Or about to have some miniature mental breakdown. If he wasn't already having some miniature mental breakdown. "I'm guessing most of my answers are just going to be 'because I was scared'.

"Why-"

"Look, get in the car. I'll… Tell you, but not here. Not in the middle of the carpark, not whilst we're at school. So just come for a drive. Just this once, one last time. Then you never have to speak to me again, not once, not if you don't want to. Not once you know, alright?"

"Alright. But if you flip you shit and start crying or trying to strangle me or something, I swear to God I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll spend the next year choking up cum."

"Fair enough." Stan opened the driver's side door, climbing into the car. Exhaling, Kyle ran his fingers through his hair. He paused for a second. He could leave now. Stan wasn't gripping onto him anymore. He could go back to economics, apologise to Mr Harris for his extended absence. He didn't have to do this.

Cursing under his breath, Kyle wrenched open the passenger side door, sitting down heavily on the passenger seat. "If… If this is all some big-ass game you're playing, if you're seriously doing this for shits and giggles, I won't ever forgive you, alright?"

"It's not a game. None of this was ever a game." Stan twisted awkwardly in his seat, grabbing the shoebox off the back seat. He passed the box across to Kyle, dropping it unceremoniously onto his lap. Kyle heard soft clatter as the floppy disks bounced together. "I brought you back your sorry."

Kyle took it, lifting the lid. He should have been happier, to get his box of disks back. It was still the biggest collection he'd ever had all at once. But he felt too weird to really enjoy it. This whole situation had him on edge, it was so awkward. Stan, the lies, the stuff Kenny had said, Wendy. The truth. The supposed truth. A box of floppy disks just seemed so pointless right now.

But they'd probably become less pointless when this drive was over. Kyle began to carefully stack the disks, lining them up into neat little rows. "Did you take out all your whiney tweenage journals?"

"No."

Kyle frowned. "Why?"

"Because I don't know which ones they are. I never used to label them, I only ever labelled the boxes. None of our computers actually have the slot you stick those disks into, not anymore. They only have CD-ROM's and USB ports." Frowning, Stan pulled his keys out his pocket. "I'm not entirely sure how you manage to read them."

"I have an external reader. Do you want me to pick out your ones for you? I won't read them, not of you don't want me to." Kyle wasn't quite sure he could keep his word on that, the temptation to see what it was Stan was acting do wackadoodle over was fairly strong. But he thought he should make a gesture nevertheless. Stan had given him back his sorry, after all.

Shrugging, Stan started the car. "It's okay, you can read them if you want. I don't care anymore. If you're going to stop talking to me, I'd rather it be because… Because you… I'd rather it be you know, not just because I…"

Stan trailed off, reversing the car out the space. Gripping the box to his chest, Kyle just watched him. Something about this was very weird. Very wrong. He should have run when he had the chance.

* * *

A/N – You know what they say about buses. You wait for an age then two roll up at once.


	22. Luckily We're Only Young Once

"You're going to get me in trouble for this, you know. You can't just waltz out of class any time you feel like it."

"Don't worry, you won't get into trouble. I'll sort it."

"My mom'll _kill_ me when she finds out. If I end up getting screamed out again because of this stupid little fit you're having I'll-"

"_Don't worry_, _you won't get into trouble. __I'll sort it_. She won't find out. I'll just tell Mr Harris I threw up on you and you took me home or something. I'll tell him it was all my fault."

"It _is_ all your fault. All of this is your fault. Everything is _always _your fault."

"C'mon, not _everything_. I mean, most of it is Cartman's fault. A lot of it is my father's fault. A lot of it is _your mother's_ fault. And some of it is your fault too. No matter how much you try to deny it, some of this shit is your fault too."

Kyle didn't bother to respond; he wasn't going to make a game of deciding who was stupider as a kid. It was Stan. Nobody had been stupider then Stan. Nobody _was _stupider then Stan. Instead he just stared pointedly out the passenger side window, watching the pines brush past, the quick mess of sketchy details and blurry colour. Next to him, he felt Stan shift in his seat, clearing his throat awkwardly. It _was_ awkward. Everything was always so awkward when Stan was involved. Awkward and painful.

A particularly big pine tree slid passed the window. Kyle blinked at it. It was rare to see them that big anymore. Most of the great ones had been felled long ago. Either by loggers wanting wood, or by builders laying roads. Or they'd been torn and hurled through into space up monstrous Jewish icons.

"Why did you think they had nudes on them?"

Kyle blinked. "What?"

"On the floppy disks. Why did you think I'd save nude pictures of myself on a bunch of floppy disks?"

Kyle shrugged. He was still clutching the box against his chest, gripping tightly it against his shirt. He still wasn't sure if Stan was going to let him keep them. Kyle wouldn't put it past him to change his mind and try repossess them again. "I don't get why _anybody _would save naked pictures of themselves on a bunch of floppy disks, but hey, they do. It seems like every other disk I get is full of pictures of some middle-aged housewife doing something obscene with a feather duster." Kyle bit his lip, watching the passing conifers. None of them were as impressive as the big pine they'd just passed.

"Well there are no nudes in that box. Not of me, at any rate. There might be nudes of other people." Stan gripped the steering wheel, peering down the road. A car passed them, speeding away, way too fast, in the opposite direction. "I can't vouch for the integrity of my father and his colleges."

"I just don't get this compulsion people have to strip naked at take horrifying photos of themselves. It's just _stupid_."

"I dunno. I mean, it's not like you're so adverse to nakedness. You once went to a Raging Pussies concert in just your _underwear_."

"And _you_ once got naked and jacked it in San Francisco. We all do stupid shit when we're _young_. Luckily we're only young once, and for a relatively short period of time. People grow up."

"We live in _South Park_-"

"_Oh, really_? We do? I hadn't noticed."

"Hush your sarcasm. _We live in South Park_, and if living in this shithole of a deathtrap has taught you anything, _anything at all_, it's that people don't grow up. Going through puberty doesn't guarantee you'll stop behaving like a child sometimes. It doesn't mean you won't still fuck up and make a mistake. It _certainly _doesn't mean you wont still do stupid things sometimes."

"I mean _normal_ people. Normal _adults_. Not the freaks who live here, not the morons who like starting riots or mass panics or international pandemics or, I dunno, who like crying in pizza restaurants."

"I don't _like _crying in pizza restaurants. I might _do _it, but that doesn't mean I _like_ it. Everybody has to do shit they don't like sometimes. Even you, no doubt."

"Oh yeah, tell me about it. Sometimes I'm forced into going on these overly long drives with this douchebag idiot who called me a loser behind me back. He also repossessed his sorry, only to change his mind and _give it the fuck back, _for no apparent reason at all. He lies to me, all the fucking time it would seem, about the stupidest of things. And once, when we were kids, he told me he hated me and wanted me to go die."

"Jesus Kyle, please. I already told you, _I didn't mean it_. You're not a loser, I just wanted Wendy to shut up and leave us alone. I'm trying to be honest with you, but it's fucking hard. And I never hated you, not ever, and I certainly don't want you to go die. That's seriously the _last _thing I want. I just… I dunno. I just thought it would be _better_ that way. Better for you. Better for us both. But it's not. It's awful."

"Better then _what_?"

"You really don't have a clue, huh? Jesus Kyle."

Kyle bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes still fixed on the blurry landscape streaming past the passenger side window. It was beginning to snow again. It was getting dark and snowy. Stan was going to end up getting them stranded if he kept driving down these obscure country roads. Stranded or lost.

"Look, are we nearly there? It's getting dark and you've been driving for an hour. We must be nearly at _Denver_ by now."

"Actually, we're nearly back at South Park. This route pretty much just circles the woods."

Kyle snapped his face away from the window, twisting round so he could glare at Stan. Stan, for his part, kept his eyes pointedly glued to the road. "_Why_ did you drag me out of school so you could spent an hour _driving me round the fucking woods_?! _Christ_ Stan, what the _hell_?!"

"For the same reason I drove you to some tacky little diner the outskirts of _Denver_ to so I could buy you a pizza and _cry_."

"The South Park crazy has finally got you, and now you're just as fucking insane as your _father_?"

"No. At least I hope not. I just like spending time with you. And I'll use any excuse to make you spent time with me. Even if you are going to spend the whole time glaring silently out the window. Even if you're angry and belligerent, even if you spend the whole time pointedly refusing to look at me."

"Seriously Stan, what the _fuck _has gotten into you? Why the _fuck _are you acting so _fucking_ crazy? When we were kids, you were always one of the _sanest _people in this shithole, and now it's like you're seconds away from donning your mothers dress and wig and running at me with a carving knife!"

"My mother doesn't have a wig."

"_That's _the part you have an issue with?!"

"Look, no. No, no women's clothes, no mother, no wigs, no you getting stabbed in any way. I _promise _you, you will not get stabbed. Not tonight, at any rate. I just, I want to talk to you. Just... Here-" Stan kicked down the indicator, pulling off the road. Driving down some slush-covered dirt track, heading into the woods. "There's a clearing down here. We can go park. And talk."

"Just FYI Stan, turning down some creepy dirt track and driving me into the woods doesn't reassure me about that whole not going to be stabbed thing, not really. _Not at all_."

"_There will be no stabbing_. It's just... We're pretty high up round here. And sort of out of the way. It's quiet and secluded, and this clearing has a pretty nice view over South Park. I mean, if you're going to ignore me and stare angrily out the window, I thought I might at least give you something to stare _at_."

"Don't be stupid. There is no good view of South Park. The closest thing you have to a good view is the reflection you get it in the rear view mirror. The one that gets smaller and smaller as you_ speed the fuck away_."


	23. You Fuck Me Right Up

"I told you it was a nice view, huh?"

"I guess. I mean, it's not like it's _hideous_ or anything. I suppose… I suppose it's quite pretty really. I'd say it makes South Park look almost normal, but that would be a lie. Even as a bunch of twinkling lights in the distance, that town still looks _batshit fucking insane_."

Stan smiled slightly. He was leaning over the steering wheel, his forehead inches away from the windshield. "You're just can't wait to get out, can you?"

"_Duh_. Christ Stan, I don't think any of us are here by _choice_. There isn't a kid in that school who isn't itching to get away from the crazy. Except for Cartman, that is. But then, he usually _is _the crazy."

"You remember what Craig said back when we were eight right? He said _we_ were the crazy."

Kyle sighed, lifting his foot up, resting it on the dashboard. He'd finally put the shoebox down, tucking it securely under the passenger side seat. "But there hasn't been a _we _Stan, not for three years. There's been a me and Kenny, there's been a Cartman. There's been a _you_. But not an…" Kyle trailed off, gesturing between them. "If it really was us who caused that shit, it would have stopped when you told me to go die." Kyle bit his lip, resting his elbow in his knee. "I'm not going to pretend like we didn't make it worse sometimes. Maybe we did cause it occasionally,_ Mr Beaver Dam_, but… But not always. Not even often. That town's just… _Fucked up_. It's like they drug the water or something."

"I dunno Ky. I think you give the world too much credit. _Everywhere's_ fucking crazy. South Park's just a little crazier than most. Besides," Stan quirked his lip, his eyes still fixed on the map of lights below "it's not _all_ bad."

"It _is_ all bad. It's all very bad. There is _nothing_ good in that town. Everything's just _awful_."

"Except you, you mean. You're not awful."

"Except me, yes. Granted I am pretty wonderful. I'm a wonderful _loser_. But then, I'm not from South Park. _Technically _I'm from _New Jersey_."

"You were born here, just like all of us."

"But I was _made _in New Jersey. I was _grown _in New Jersey. I wasn't exposed to the same in utero South Park crazy you all were."

"Oh yeah. That turned out so _well_ for you, didn't it _Kyley-B_?"

"_I am fine_, just so long as I stick to the West Coast! That shit only happens if I go too far East."

"But-"

"Bitch I will punch you in the face again if you keep dredging that shit up."

"_But _it proves my point though. _Everywhere_ is crazy. It's just… South Park's crazy is just a little more noticeable than most."

Kyle didn't answer him. He just chewed his lip, gazing out over South Park. It was quite nice, really. The lights from the houses, the lit up Harbucks sign, the Whistlin' Willy's and Denny's logos. The patterns the streets made, the occasional cars winding round the unlit roads. All made hazy by the seemingly endless snowfall drifting down from the clouds, the patchy shadows that occasionally covered the moon as they drifted across the grey sky. It still looked crazy, but from this distance, it looked like a enticing kind of crazy.

This was probably where Stan brought his girlfriends. This was probably what he showed them when he wanted to impress them. Kyle cleared his throat; that wasn't a particularly comfortable realisation. It was probably a true one, but not a pleasant one. Stan'd probably brought Wendy here; he probably brought her here a lot. He'd probably brought the other girls here to. In this very car, to this very spot. For some reason, Stan had dragged him out of class to bring him to what was essentially his make-out spot. So they could sit in awkward silence and stare out at the horizon.

So Kyle could sit in awkward silence thinking of all those girls who'd been driven to this very spot, who'd sat in this very seat. Who'd stared out at those very lights.

"You know, I've seen Clyde Donovan's mother naked."

It'd been an abrupt way to break the silence, but at least it meant Kyle didn't have to think about what Stan had probably done to Wendy in this very car, at this very spot. It'd also startled Stan into choking on his own spit, something Kyle considered a bit of a bonus.

"Shit, really?"

Kyle just nodded. "She was saved on a bunch of floppy disks I brought from Father Maxi."

Stan raised his eyebrows, clumsily clearing his throat. "What did you do?"

"Oh, _I had a wank of course_! Christ Stan, what the fuck do you think I did?! I sat there staring at the screen with a horrified look on my face! Fuck me."

"_With the pictures_, I mean. What did you do with the pictures?"

"Nothing. I just kept them on the disk. I filed the disk away with the dead and broken ones. Then I gave those to Butters. So, somewhere in Butters' artwork, there are naked pictures of Clyde Donovan's dead mother."

"Well that gives his work a whole new dimension. Are you going to tell him?"

"Clyde Donovan or Butters?"

"Either, I guess. Both."

For a second Kyle was silent, staring out the windshield. "No, probably not. I can't see why Donovan would want pervy pictures of his dead mother, and I don't want to sully Butters' innocent artistic endeavours by telling him shit like that. I'm not _Cartman_, I'm not just going to go round blurting out that kind of shit for my own amusement."

"I dunno. I mean, maybe Clyde would have appreciated them. Not the nakedness, but the fact that they were photos of his _mother_. It's not like he can take any more, you know? Maybe he'd appreciate anything he can get. Besides, he could always crop them down to just her face or whatever."

Kyle shook his head. "Her _face_ wasn't what she was trying to photograph. If you cropped out all the… The mentally scarring, horrific parts, you'd've been left with, like, an ear and a nose, and a square of background maybe. It's better to have nothing then to have something like _that_, you know. Something so fucked up. There's no need to sully good memories."

"Maybe."

"Besides, Butters has smashed most of those disks to pieces. Most of them have been broken up into little fragments and glued onto a big-ass canvas, so it's not like those pictures are ever coming back. Even if someone wanted them to."

Stan was frowning down at the town. "Doesn't that go against your whole 'I don't want this shit to be forgotten' thing though? I thought the whole reason you snooped through those disks was to save shit like that."

"Every rule has exceptions. Some things... The things that can hurt, or upset, I don't want to save them. I like the business reports and financial plans. I like the _ideas_ that people saved on those disks, the dreams and hopes. _That's_ what I want to save. Not horrific nudie pictures of middle-aged _mothers_. _Kenny _saves those."

"_Kenny_ shares your floppy disk hobby? Christ, I had no idea floppy disks were so popular."

"_Kenny_ just likes posting pictures of naked strangers on the internet. He has a webpage set up and everything."

"Well that's... Really fucking creepy."

"Tell me about it."

Stan paused for a minute, blinking up at the stars. Kyle just bit the inside of the cheek, staring out the passenger side window. Staring into the woods. Maybe there were bears in this forest, prowling about, weaving through the trees. Getting ready to hibernate through winter. Maybe there _had _been bears in this forest. Maybe, before Stan's Uncle Jimbo, maybe there had been bears then.

"You know... You know I'm your friend on Facebook, right?"

Kyle blinked. "Bit of a non sequitur, but whatever."

Stan smiled. Not at Kyle, but out the window. They were still both pointedly avoiding eye contact. "I know. But it's true; I am, and I have been for years."

Frowning, Kyle rearranged his foot on the dashboard. "You don't have a Facebook. And you're not my friend."

"I do. And I am. I made a fake one and added a few people from school. Then I added you. You accepted, of course. Because you'll accept anyone. You're either really _nice_, or a total friend-whore."

"I like to think it's the former."

"It might be a lot of the former, but you'd be a liar to deny there's a fair bit of the latter in there too. I'm also following you on Twitter. Under the same fake name. You're a real snarker sometimes."

"That's… That's _really fucking creepy_ Stan."

"Oh, I know. I also skipped class to wait outside your AP Calc room the day we went out for pizza."

Kyle blinked. He had a sinking feeling, a horrible, awful, empty feeling that this day was not going to end well. He was beginning to worry that Stan was going to go back on his no stabbing promise. He was beginning to worry that this day was going to end with Stan wearing his skin as a coat or something. He wouldn't be surprised. This was South Park, after all. Being stabbed to death by some crazed quarterback in the middle of the woods was probably one of the more normal ways to die. "Why on _Earth_ would you do that?"

Stan shrugged. "I dunno. I was worried you'd try sneak out without meeting me. You do shit like that, you know. When you don't want to do something, you just don't do it. You sneak away, you run away. You find a way to get away."

"Why do you _care _though? Why are you so desperate to be friends again?"

Stan was silent for a minute, his arms crossed over the steering wheel. He was peering into the distance like the drifting snow was spelling out the meaning of life or something. "I don't know. You make me do such _stupid_ things sometimes. You make me _say_ stupid things, you make me _act_ stupid. You make me set up fake Facebook profiles, you make me all but _stalk _you_. You make me cry in pizza restaurants_. I'm usually pretty cool, but not when it comes to you. I'm like the _lamest_ person on Earth when it comes to you. You just, you _fuck me right up_ Kyle."

"So _why on Earth_ do you want to be friends with me again then?! Surely you're better off on your own, or with Wendy, or those dickheads you play football with! Not with me, not acting fucking crazy wangsting away in diners with the local fucking _loser_."

Stan laughed slightly, pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. "You're never, ever going to let me live that down, are you? No matter what happens after this, no matter how we end up, you will hold that over me until the day I die. Any time you're losing an argument, or in a bad mood, you'll just remind me of the time I called you a loser, and the time I told you… All that stuff I didn't mean when we were thirteen. Sixteen years old, and you already have your mothers guilt-trip shit down to a _tee_. You're so _irritating_ sometimes, it's like I can nearly understand why Cartman does it."

Wrinkling his nose, Kyle crossed his arms across his chest. "Well if I'm that fucking irritating, _why the goddamn fucking cat-hell do you want to be friends again_? Christ Stan, answer the fucking question!"

"Because you're… You're Kyle. You're irritating and belligerent and a little bit brilliant. And I love you. There's no-one else _like_ you in this whole stupid town. On this whole fucking planet._ In the history of fucking time ever_. I miss you. Like, a lot. You might fuck me up, but I fuck myself up way worse without you."

"That… That is flat out the _gayest_ thing I've ever heard someone say out loud. You _supermassive_ pussy."

"Tell me about it."


	24. Secret Masturbation Spot

"Okay, it's bugging me now."

"What is? Do you want me to turn the heaters up?"

"No, not that. I'm just… Is this... Is this where you bring Wendy or whoever when you want to impress them?"

"What, here?"

"_Yes here_. Where else?!"

"No, I don't bring people up here. You're the first. So, you know, _congratulations_!"

"What really?!"

"Yep, really. You should feel very honoured."

For a second Kyle was silent, still staring out into the night. Still refusing to make eye contact. The snow was beginning to fall faster now, faster and thicker. They'd have to leave soon. Leave before they got snowed in. Leave whilst they still could, before it got too late. Before the snow got too deep. "So what _do_ you do up here then? Why come here if not to impress your many, _many_ girlfriends?"

"I don't have _that_ many girlfriends."

"_Ex-girlfriends_ then."

"I don't have that many ex-girlfriends either! Christ, stop trying to make me look bad."

"Dude, I could probably list all the girls in our year you _haven't _dated on one hand."

"Don't be stupid. You'd need at least _two _hands for that."

"You could probably list _all _the girls in our year on two hands. But still, don't change the subject. If this isn't your local woo-ing spot, what is it?"

"I don't want to say."

"Why?"

"Because it's embarrassing."

"Dude, I think it's a bit late to worry about being _embarrassed_. You _cried_ in a diner last week. _In front of me_! I mean, you could sit there and tell me this was your secret masturbation spot and it wouldn't be as embarrassing as that." Kyle paused for a second, wrinkling his nose. "It's... It's _not _your secret masturbation spot, is it? Because if it is… I mean, _ew _Stan. Just _ew_."

"What?! _No! _This isn't my secret masturbation spot! I mean, what the fuck _is_ a secret masturbation spot?! Who the fuck _has_ a secret masturbation spot anyway?! Wait," Stan slapped the back of his hand against Kyle's shoulder. Kyle blinked down at it. "Do _you_ have a secret masturbation spot?"

"No, but then I don't cry in tacky retro diners either. I'm _normal_."

"You might be _a lot _of things Kyle, but you're defiantly not normal."

"Compared to _you_ I'm the pillar of fucking normality."

"_Kyley-B_."

"_Bitch if you keep that shit up I will-_"

"I write poetry."

"_What_?"

"This… This is… This is where I come to write poetry."

"_Oh God, you're writing poetry again_?!"

Stan looked genuinely wounded. "What's wrong with my poetry?!"

"What? No-er-n-nothing. Did I say 'oh God'? No, I meant _oh good. _Oh _good_, you're writing poetry again!"

"You are such a bad liar."

"Yeah, I know. I hate your poetry. We all do. It's _awful _Stan. I mean, really, _really _just awful. It makes me want to, like, I dunno, _cry_ in a diner or something."

Stan smiled, shaking his head. "You will _never _let me forget that, will you? You will _never _let me live that down."

"You _cried _in a diner! You drove me to Denver so you could sit there and _cry_. Why on Earth would I _ever _let you live that down?!"

"We all do stupid things sometimes Kyle. Even you."

"Blasphemy. I never do anything stupid. I'm _perfect_."

"_Whatever you say Kyle_. _Whatever you say_."

Kyle bit the inside of his cheek, pressing his forehead against the passenger side window. "Why… Why were you so scared… Scared about the floppy disks?"

"I'm not scared of floppy disks. Why would I be scared of floppy disks. Floppy disks really aren't all that _scary_, Kyle."

"Not _of _the floppy disks, _about _the floppy disks. Why were you so scared of me reading your gay little _diary_? I mean, we used to tell each other _everything_ when we were kids. Fuck, we used to measure each other's _dick sizes_. Everything you wrote, I probably know. I knew it all."

"Not everything."

"Pretty much. You always were weirdly open about your _feelings_. You're kind of a _massive pussy _like that, after all."

"_Not everything_." Stan reached out, gripping a corner of Kyle's coat. Anchoring him down, anchoring him in the car. Kyle blinked, glancing down at the hand. "Not everything. I guess… I just didn't want you reading page after page of my pathetic tweenage love declarations."

Kyle felt himself colour. The slight hotness that let him know he was blushing. He tried to pull the corner of his coat out of Stan's grip, but to no avail. Stan was clutching onto him tight. "I don't _care_ about the shit you wrote about _Wendy_, Stan. I don't care about the shit you wrote about _any _of them. I've heard it _all_ before. All the _poems_, all the rambling _love notes_. The _cards_, the _lists_. I was there when you wrote them. Fuck, I _helped_ you write them."

Stan tensed his fingers, tightening his grip on Kyle's coat, clutching at the fabric. "I didn't write it about _Wendy_ dude. Not all of them, at any rate. I wrote... I wrote a lot of them-a lot of them... About..."

Kyle felt antsy. His heart was beginning to race. He wanted to get out the car, to just open the door and leave. He wanted to yank his coat out of Stan's vice like grip. He wanted to not be here, to fight his way through the snow, fight his way home. Kenny would probably come pick him up if he called him. He'd risk the ride in the death-trap-truck. He'd willingly spend the journey freezing his ass off and clutching the ripped seat like his life depended on it. _Because_ his life depended on it. He didn't care. He just didn't want to be here, sitting in Stan's stupid car, discussing the hordes of pathetic girls Stan had once had a crush on. The hordes of girls Stan would later go on to _date_. He wished he'd fought harder, pulled away from Stan back at the school. He wished he'd never let Stan drive him out to the middle of nowhere. He wished he wasn't here, because he didn't want to hear this. He wished he didn't have to talk to Stan about all the stupid girls he'd been in love with. He didn't want to hear it. He wished all of this would just go away. Just like he used to wish they'd go away, back in middle school, back when they were friends. Back when Kyle had lived through this shit the first time round. Back when, back before.

Fuck it though. He wasn't Billy fucking Kaplan. He didn't get what he wanted by shutting his eyes and _wishing_ really hard. Frowning, Kyle cleared his throat. "Well whoever it was it the _time_! I really don't give a _shit_ Stan. It was boring enough _living _though your tweenage love life; not even I'm sad enough to spend my weekends _reading _about it! I don't _care."_

"Oh, you probably would."

"I _guarantee _I wouldn't!"

"Oh my God would you just _look _at me dude. _Please_. Just-Oh, just _fuck_!" He felt Stan grip at him, clutch at his sides, tug at the fabric of his coat. Tug at his shirt. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on, not at first anyway. Stan was leaning over him, kneeling on the handbrake, driving his face into his neck, murmuring something. Telling him something. He felt Stan clutch at the shoulder of his t-shirt, gripping at his coat.

Kyle twisted in his seat, wriggling out of his coat. Reaching back, he clicked open the car door, falling backwards out into the snow.


	25. Some Fucked Up Game

"Jesus Kyle, are you okay?!"

Groaning, Kyle pressed his hands over his face, shielding his eyes from the dusky orange glow of the interior car light. He was awkwardly sprawled in the snow, half in, half out the car. Stan was kneeling across the gearstick, his hands braced against the back of the passenger side seat, the spot Kyle had so gracelessly just vacated. Kyle blinked; from this angle, it looked a bit like Stan had a halo. Lit up from behind the back of his head, half hidden by the shadows, half bathed in the car's sickening orange light, he looked a bit like a saint. Or a picture of a saint, at any rate. The kid of saints you find in old art galleries, in churches, carved into the wood, cut into the stained glass windows.

Only the expression was wrong. Stan looked sickly pale, stricken and terrified. In their pictures, saints never looked scared. They always devoted and holy, and always at ease with their fate. No matter what fate awaited them, no matter if they were crying, or smiling, or clasping their hands together, gripping at their heart. Staring heavenwards with wide, overly emotional eyes. No matter if they were about to be beheaded, martyred torn apart with lions, they always looked at ease, and absolutely accepting. Stan looked everything _but_ at ease and accepting. He looked ill, and bona fide terrified.

"_Kyle_?!"

"Yeah yeah, I'm fine. Luckily there's a shitload of ice and rocks out here to help break my fall." Kyle rubbed the back of his head. "Really helpful. Totally didn't hurt at all."

"Alright, just-"

"Hey Stan? What the fuck was _that_?!"

Stan laughed nervously, shifting awkwardly in the car. "What the fuck was what?"

"You know damn well what! What the fuck was _that_, the whole grabby-trying-to-fucking-kiss-me that! That that! What the _fuck _was that?!"

"I don't know, I just… I just thought you might… Might… I just thought you might, you know?"

"No, I don't know! What the hell do you think you're doing?!

"I just… I…"

"Fuck Stan! You just what?"

"Oh, come on Kyle! Just… Just give it a chance, yeah? I mean, how do you know you won't like it? You've never even tried it!"

"I've never tried _stabbing myself in the face_ but I'm pretty sure I won't like that!"

"Look, dude, just… Just please. We can just kiss and hug for a bit. We can just sit quite close to each other for a bit. I can just stare at you for an hour, drive you home, and then never speak to you again. We can just _try _it, just, just try something. _Anything._ Just _please _just try it. Or just think about it. Or just… Just do anything that might make you give it a chance, yeah? Just please. _Please_. I mean, it's not like it would be totally horrific, right?! Please Kyle."

Kyle groaned, pressing his hands back over his eyes, turning his face away from the car. He was freezing, lying in the snow, on the ice, surrounded by darkness, the thick snowfall. The icy, biting wetness was soaking slowly through his t-shirt, freezing his exposed arms. It was freezing him to the core. And he just lay there, on the ice and rocks, in the snow. He just lay in the beginnings of another South Park snowstorm.

"I cannot believe Stanley Marsh, Stanley fucking Marsh, the fucking all-star quarterback, the fucking homecoming fucktard, is leaning out a car, begging me to fuck him. This is seriously the most fucked up moment of my whole entire life. I mean, Jesus Christ Stan, _Jesus Christ_. I think I'd rather you have stabbed me. I literally wish you'd driven me out here to stab me. That would have been so much less fucked up then this."

"You're right, I know, this is weird. I know this is really fucked up. Look-" Stan clicked open the divers side door. "I'll get out the car too."

"_You being in the car wasn't the fucking weird part_!"

"I know, but I'll still get out the car anyway."

"Is this some joke to you, some fucked up game or something? Is Cartman recording this?! Are you all just playing with me?! Oh my God, this is all just a game to you, isn't it? You're just playing some fucked up game at my expense!"

"Of course not! _Of course not_." Exhaling, Stan crouched down next to Kyle, running his hands through his hair. He was kneeling in the ice and snow, just looking down at Kyle lying there, still awkwardly sprawled across the ice and rocks. Ice cold and terrified. Stan was no longer haloed by the dusky interior car light, no longer sainted by that awful, sickly light. Now he was framed by the falling snow, lit up by the moon and the stars. The sliver white light of the real heavens. "Christ Kyle, I wouldn't fuck about, not with-not with-not about this. Not this. Not with you. Never with you."

"Then what the cat-in-hell are you doing?! Why… Why now?"

"I just, I can't do this anymore. I _couldn't_ when we were younger. I mean, I was _scared_. I was _thirteen_. But… But it's not worth it, none of it is, not if I don't get to do it with you. I don't care about Wendy, or homecoming, or my stupid _reputation._ I don't care about any of that shit. I don't care about football or about being cool or about anything really. It's all stupid. It all _sucks_ when I'm doing it without you. Everything sucks when I'm doing it without you. I'm not lying to you, I'm not playing a game. I… I love you. And I always sort of have, really."

"That's… That's super gay, Stan."

"I know, right?"

Kyle blinked. Stan was leaning down, leaning over him. He was kissing him, their mouths together. Their lips together. His tongue pressing against Kyle's lips. His fingertips brushing Kyle's cheek, tilting his face up, positioning him, ever so carefully. And Kyle was letting him. He was lying in the snow, half in the car, half out of it. He was wet, he was freezing. He had no idea what was going on. So he just lay there, on the ice and the rocks. Just letting him.

Because it wasn't horrific. It wasn't awful. It wasn't even _bad_. It was Stan. It was just Stan.

It'd always just been Stan.

Kyle broke away, pulling back. "You are as crazy as your fucking father, you know?"

Stan smiled, his fingertips still brushing Kyle's cheek. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

A/N – Apologies for the delay, and for the shortarse chapter. I had a real killer of an assessment due today, but hey, finally they kiss. It only took them 36,000 words! Thank you thank you for the reviews and favourites, one more chapter and this meandering mess is all over!


	26. Another Night

"I'm sorry. That was too emotive. To forward. I should probably have… I don't know. Confessed, maybe."

"You did confess. I don't think many things confess those sorts of feelings then a sudden lunge and a make-out session in the snow. You'd need neon signs and can-can dancers to make it any more obvious than that. And those sort of gimmicks are Cartman's shtick."

"I mean with words. I should probably have… Told you, you know. Confessed it to you with words. Told you how I felt. How I've always felt. Why… Why I needed you to be away from me. Why I couldn't be around you. Why I was so scared."

"Yeah, telling me would have been nice. It'd certainly have saved us a shit load of resentment, awkward silences, and long, pointless drives."

"I never resented you."

"Well I damn sure resented you! You told me to go die!"

Stan laughed, looking out across South Park, blinking at the map of lights in the distance. They were sitting close to the ledge, sitting in the snow, on the ice. It was freezing, Kyle was freezing, sitting there in his damp t-shirt, wrapped up in his trusty coat. His duffel coat. It was fucking freezing. But it was beautiful. "You're never going to let me live that down."

"Damn straight. I'll haunt you with that until the day you die. Then I'll have them carve it on your tombstone. You're going to bear that cross until the day you die."

"I don't even care. Just so long, just so long as you're there with me. Every step of the way. Still… I am sorry. I shouldn't have just sprung that on you. I can be too forward. My mom tells me I wear my heart on my sleeves sometimes."

"That's okay." Kyle lifted his left sleeve, lifted up his patch. "I wear my religion on my elbow, so I guess we're even."

Grinning, Stan lifted one knee to his chest. "So, do you think we can be Super Best Friends again?"

Kyle leant forward, frowning at the sky. A cloud shifted, a gap opened up. The moon shone through. Kyle bit his lip. He always forgot how much he loved the sky, loved the stars and the moon, and how it always looked grey, but never really was. Underneath the snow and clouds was the navy and black, the purple. There was Mars and Venus, when he could see them. There probably wouldn't be stars and skies like this when he left for college. There would be too much light at night, light pollution. Darkness and the midnight sky was one of the only great things South Park had to offer. One of the sparse few positives this crazy shithole had to offer.

"Probably not, no. Kenny's my best friend, he had been for a while. He stood by me after… After all the shit that went down between us. I think that part of our lives is well and truly over. Dead and buried." Kyle smiled. "Broken and cracked. I don't think we're doing anybody any favours trying to resuscitate it. But-" Stan, who had been midway through either a cringe or a wince, or an innovative combination of the two, froze. "But that doesn't mean we can't be _something_."

"What… What sort of something?"

"I don't know yet. A new sort of something. A… A _progressive_ sort of something."

Stan swallowed. "An awful 'let's nod at each other in the corridor and slowly stop speaking to each other again' sort of progressive something, or a wonderful sort of progressive something?"

"I don't know. It depends what you think a 'wonderful progressive something' is."

"A wonderful progressive something is a 'will you let me pick you up in the mornings' sort of something."

"Oh yeah, you can do that. I really fucking hate that bus, after all."

"It's a 'will you let me buy you a coffee' sort of something, too."

Kyle was still starting at the sky. He could feel Stan shifting, moving closer. He could feel their shoulders brushing. The heat. He could feel the heat. Stan's heat. He felt warm. Even in the freezing cold night, in the snow and ice, in his t-shirt, damp with icy wetness, he felt warm. "Maybe. Maybe we can be that sort of something."

"Maybe we can be a 'can I hold your hand and kiss you in the park' sort of something too?"

"Yeah, maybe… Maybe." Kyle smiled, blinking the stars out of his eyes. Stan had reached out, reached across. He was pressing his palm against Kyle's, lacing their fingers together. And Kyle was letting him. He was just letting him. Because he didn't want to be Stan's Super Best Friend. Not again. He didn't want to be the guy Stan just ignored silently in the corridor. They'd done that for so long already. They'd done both of them for so long.

He didn't want to be a memory. He didn't want to be that kid Stan had once known, once had a crush on. He didn't want to not have Stan, not again. He wanted Stan. He needed him. They needed each other. Stan and Kyle, together. This was how they were supposed to be. It's how it needed to be.

Stan was grinning at him. Kyle smiled back. "Yeah, maybe. We'll see." He paused, smiling down at their hands. "Although let's not go to the park though."

"Why? What's wrong with the park?"

"Oh, nothing. The park itself is fine. It's just Kenny keeps on flashing people there. He's started dressing as a vicar and everything. I'm just getting a bit tired of seeing his fucking wang is all."

"Well that is a conversation for another night."

* * *

A/N -

Christ that was long. At it went on longer then it should have. And on a tangent of its own. I should have probably jacked this in a dozen chapters ago; this was not good at all. But I have a compulsion about leaving things unfinished. As bad as it is, it'll come to a conclusion. Still, it's over now. That's that.

Thank you for reading and sticking out this mess for 26 paragraph length chapters that went absolutely nowhere. Quite a feat. Thank you, a whole, whole lot, for reviewing it and actually saying some pretty nice things. I probably would have jacked all this fanfiction stuff in if I didn't know there were at least some people out there who were enjoying it, and not hating it. So thank you, a whole, whole bunch, for the reviews, encouragement, and favs.

I don't know when/if the next fic will be. Life is giving me a bit of a rollicking at the minute, and I've got a terrifying two months of academic nightmare coming up. So I really have no clue. Still, hopefully the next one will be better. And have an actual plot. And decent chapter lengths. And all those things that I should do but don't, because I suck total candyfloss.


End file.
